


Not Just Notches

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis!whump, Canon Era, Dramatic Gasp, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Kidnapping, M/M, Rivalry, Scarring, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, all the unrequited crushes, and then, mentions of cutting, mentions of self-abuse, so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4778219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where marks of love litter wrists, Aramis despairs of two red tallies, one at the beginning of a smattering of black and one at the end of scars, but both so very wrong – the latter royally so. All Aramis knows is lines, and like a prisoner in a cell they're kept counted, scratched indelibly into his skin. </p><p>One final one might just set him free from the life sentence of the first, but how it <i>stings.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Millésime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "AU in which every time a person falls in love, a red line tally mark appears on their wrist. No, but, it turns black if it's requited, it scars if the person dies, it disappears if they fall out of love, it silvers if it's lifelong and meant to be."
> 
> Thanks be to SirLancelotTheBrave who helped me scream about this months ago. To fill a quota of _we need more soulmate AU_ and _what do you mean there isn't one for OT3?_ Feast, my darlings; feast.

> I hold it true, whate'er befall;  
>  I feel it when I sorrow most;  
>  'Tis better to have loved and lost  
>  Than never to have loved at all.
> 
> \- Lord Alfred Tennyson,  _'In Memoriam A.H.H.'_

Aramis was lying on his front, sunlight shining gently across his bare back as his legs idly kicked his blanket up to his waist. He was warm, he was sleepy, and he had absolutely nowhere to be today. It was one of those mythical days, a  _lazy_ day, and he stretched delightedly.

He reached up to push his hair off of his face, his fingers making slow movements in his curls as the light played over his wrist.

A multitude of marks were etched down the inside of his forearm, little black lines dotted amongst empty space, and too many scars. All stories of love, of loss, told over a lifetime. He didn't know all their names anymore, nor their faces, all they were now was a mark – or a lack of one.

He knew them as people, remembered them as lovers, but which one was six-down, two-across? Who marked that freckle, who disappeared to leave his vein a visible blue river beneath his skin, who was near the top, going back years?

Who was the scar that had shown up a few months ago? It had been black, solid black, in love with him still, and then one day he had woken, staring at his arm as he did every morning, and he had seen it. A pink pucker of flesh, as if someone had scored his skin with a knife-edge and left him to bleed.

Aramis had mourned, his heart heavy for a life lost.

He would forever mark that wrist, whoever they were, the nameless scar before the damning line of faded royal red – and that one couldn't melt away quickly enough.

Aramis knew he loved often and deeply, and perhaps sometimes he thought with his heart and not his head, but this minefield of a forearm was his life, his history; and it all started with one.

That sole, blood-red line at the top of his left wrist, was the beginning, Aramis' beginning. How many times had he rubbed his thumb over it, a dozen times a day over fourteen years? He had never stopped loving it, loving what small, miniscule bond he could have with someone that had never seen him as anything more than a friend.

Someone who had never realised that the fabled red mark on Aramis' wrist, belonged solely to them, even if Aramis himself could not – because being confronted every day with the clear-water truth that his love was not returned, was heart-breaking.

Sometimes he hated that red line almost as much as he loved the life it signified.

There was a faint scratching at his door and Aramis only had a second to bury his grin in his pillow when the locks clicked and Porthos came crashing into his room.

It was a familiar occurrence, ever since Aramis' parents had taken him into Paris and he had woken up to a boy no older than himself trying to steal food from their kitchen. They had eyed each other warily until Aramis had noticed the thin cheeks and the fraying breeches.

A loaf of bread, an exchange of names, and one of his father's shirts later – his own being too small for the boy's wildly growing frame – they were sat at Aramis' window and Porthos was pointing out the city's ne'er-do-wells in the dark streets below as they snickered in the moonlight.

It was fortunate that his parents' devotion to God extended beyond the enforced visits to church and included the boy that Aramis had taken under his wing – although Porthos would say that he was the one doing the protecting.

Two weeks of Porthos showing up in his room just before dinner, scolding Aramis for leaving his window unlocked  _(_ " _What does it matter, you sneak in anyway!" "S'not the point, or one day it won't be me.")_ and showing Aramis magic tricks just to make him gasp.

Aramis' heart, much like his window, was worked open by a boy that gave Aramis butterflies in his stomach even before he knew what they meant, before he knew why his smile was that much brighter with Porthos around, why his days were lighter, longer, better.

But he knew one thing, the mark that appeared on his wrist one morning, the one that made his pulse flutter like paper-thin wings and felt like sunshine when he touched it, he knew it was wrong.

Not because of what he heard in Sunday Mass, not because Porthos was male, or because he was his best friend, but because that was all he was to Porthos.

All he had been for fourteen years, and the proof was right there in the red mark on his wrist.

"Good morning to you, too," Aramis called, his voice muffled, and only raised his head to say, "Can you stop picking my lock, please?"

The bed jolted when Porthos threw himself down onto the bottom half, his weight a heavy warmth on Aramis' blanket-tangled legs. "I gotta keep my oar in, an' everyone else complains."

Aramis hummed dubiously, trying not to smile, not to curl contentedly. "Can't think why."

Porthos had a grin that made a noise when it formed, as if you could feel it even without looking at him, the way you knew a volcano had erupted because it rumbled, because it was hot, because it was going to devour you. "You'd've left your sash on the door if you were busy."

"I had to find some way of deterring you – not that it always works," Aramis added, slightly scandalised as he never was with anything else. Only Porthos could bring a flush to his cheeks, could make him stammer, make him forget all of his charms.

The chuckle against Aramis' leg didn't help, it ruffled the hairs with a warm breeze that gave him gooseflesh. "That's 'cause it's 'ilarious."

Aramis let his forehead sink into his pillow again, struggling not to squirm against the heat that slowly suffused his limbs. Porthos thought it some sort of exhibition kink that Aramis couldn't hold his nerve whenever Porthos showed up unexpectedly, wicked grin a mile wide, his eyes on whoever's legs Aramis was between, never on Aramis.

Porthos had seen nearly every single one of those lines in person, at some point, every new mark was noticed, commented on, teased about – and sometimes the lines were, too.

What Porthos didn't know was what lines matched up to whom.

Instinctively – as it always did – Aramis' right thumb found his left wrist, easing over that blood-red stain. It felt raised and raw now where it had been smooth and warm earlier.

There was movement at the end of the bed, Porthos raising up onto his elbows to see what Aramis was doing, and then a snort. "Thinkin' 'bout your arm again?"

"When am I not," he answered softly, eyes peeking over his pillow to see the veritable betting board of marks. "I have so many."

Aramis felt Porthos shrug, falling back against Aramis' legs with a thump. "So?"

If Aramis smiled, it was a sad little thing. Porthos had always been comfortable with Aramis' rampant sexuality – possibly because his own was just as diverse, if not as numerous. "So, do you think it's too many?"

It was a question he had asked Porthos – and himself – many times over the past few years, more and more often now that the marks had finally reached the flesh just above the crease of his elbow. If anyone else had asked Aramis, he would have roundly denied it, touted the benefits of loving deeply and often, but if Porthos had asked?

 _Yes,_ Aramis would have whispered; but Porthos never asked, Porthos only ever answered.

"Don't be an idiot, 'course not," Porthos grumbled, abandoning his crushing of Aramis' legs to crawl halfway up the bed beside him, his head somewhere in line with Aramis' hip. "How many times we gonna 'ave this chat? D'you rather 'ave none?"

Aramis was shocked from his tense awareness of Porthos' proximity. "No!" The thought of never loving was abhorrent – although, perhaps not as abhorrent as not being loved in return, that was a very real fear, and one that acted as the cloud on his sunny horizon every single day.

"Then stop whingin' – hey, your red one's fadin'." Porthos closed the gap between them, chest landing alongside Aramis' until they were both lying on their fronts on his bed, like they had done when they were children.

Porthos' reached for his arm, his fingers just slightly scratchier than Aramis' own as he gently twisted his wrist, carefully examining the one closest to his elbow. "Well, that one is, your first one's as red as always." Porthos' fingertip moved from Aramis' elbow to his wrist, feeling somehow brusque and intense at the same time.

The second that blunt pad touched the crimson, Aramis shivered, his breath caught somewhere in his throat at how Porthos couldn't seem to feel the piercing heat at the connection, at the  _bond_ —

And then it was gone, Porthos' finger drifting back to the faded one, which didn't even burn – except for the general itchy heat of being too close and yet not close enough.

"Still not gonna tell me who it is?" Porthos asked, knowing that Aramis wouldn't answer – the less said about that faded line, the better, for them both.

Aramis would not be responsible for Porthos' death, not when his own life revolved around Porthos'.

"As if I remember," Aramis played off glibly, and Porthos grinned, dropping his wrist with no more adieu and rolling off of the bed to walk to the window, completely unaware of how Aramis' fingers had curled into a fist as he tried to hold onto the sensation of being touched.

"That's m'boy, they'll write stories of you someday," Porthos joked, as if he were proud of Aramis' exploits, but Aramis had to wonder whether he really was, sometimes. "Actually, s'why I'm 'ere."

Aramis turned slightly, not quite ready to sit up just yet lest he let Porthos know exactly where his thoughts had been headed after having him so close. "You've finally decided to write that book about me?"

"Not sure I know enough flowery words," Porthos laughed, and although Aramis echoed it, he didn't feel it.

Aramis knew languages, both geographical and anatomical, dialects formed with mouths and tongues, accents as coarse as cobblestones or as smooth as silk. And yet, he had never found a voice he liked quite as much as Porthos', and whether the words from his mouth were polysyllabic or the rough bark of laughter, Aramis thought him a lord of language.

If only he could learn Aramis'.

Porthos turned around with Aramis' sash in his hands, the blue fabric twisted around his fingers as his mouth settled into an uncomfortable slash. "Treville's sent me on that Lyon guard."

The humour died a death, like ash that choked the skies. Aramis' throat clenched with the need to deny it, all thoughts of Porthos disappearing save one –  _please don't go._

It was torture, having Porthos near and yet so far, but at least he was  _close_ , at least Aramis knew he was safe, which went some way towards easing the ever-present ache inside of him.

They were both tactile enough to indulge in numerous hugs in the daytime and cuddles in the nighttime, even a sloppy kiss on a bristly cheek if the wine was flowing well enough, and Aramis couldn't count how often he had dozed in Porthos' arms, Porthos' steady heartbeat a tattoo against his back when it should have been a black one on his wrist.

Throwing himself at Porthos' feet and begging him not to leave wasn't exactly the best course of action, but Aramis certainly considered it, especially when his palm started to tingle painfully with the urge to reach out and touch him, to keep him near.

"I tried to get 'im to put me on the short run, but after we skipped out on the last one…" Porthos sighed, and the agony that thrummed up Aramis' arm increased ten-fold. "I'll be away for over a month."

Aramis' stomach dropped, his breath a little harder to catch as he tried to remember the last time they had been apart for that long, whether they had  _ever_ been apart for that long.

"What will I do without you?" Aramis asked, and managed to attempt a cheeky smile when Porthos looked over at the drama in his voice.

"Have a few uninterrupted nights of sleep – well, maybe not, if you're that bored," Porthos teased, trying to make light of the growing clouds that threatened to storm, always trying to make things better.

How could Aramis live without that?

Aramis sat up, and that was when he noticed the bag by the door, Porthos' cloak thrown atop the weapons that bristled underneath it, the sword bought with Porthos' first commission and named by Aramis after it had first spilled blood – his, in the training yard, and Porthos had apologised for a week.

Next to that was the shoulder-guard that bore more marks than Aramis' wrist, and the skin it protected striped with scars – the only marks on Porthos that Aramis had ever caused, and those only with a needle and thread.

Aramis stood, absent-mindedly grabbing his clothes as he said with panic underlying his confidence, "I've nothing against our brothers, but how will they keep up with your scrapes? I'll get Treville to send me, too."

"I already asked."

Aramis hesitated, wanting to believe it was something more than friendship that had prompted it, but a glance at his wrist told him otherwise. He always looked there first before meeting Porthos' eye, because at least he could read it easier, and couldn't get lost in the fresh earth of brown eyes, of the lava that threatened to burn the fragile wings in his chest.

Porthos gave him a lopsided smile. "There's a newbie comin' in, apparently e's as friendly as a wasp, needs a butterfly to show 'im the ropes."

Aramis sat down on the bed with a thump, his sigh defeated even as he gave a little hopeful smile at the butterfly reference. It wasn't quite a pet name, coined from his charming nature and love of bright fabrics, but it was enough of one to make Aramis happy – even if it had gotten around the garrison.

Treville always lumped him with the novices these days, according to their esteemed captain the turnover rate was at a record low when Aramis was involved. Apparently he was a soft touch – evidently Treville didn't realise  _quite_ how softly Aramis could touch. He was a favourite amongst the veterans, after all, and he could lay claim to at least half a dozen marks on the wrists of starry-eyed newcomers.

Aramis' shrug was a limp thing, like damp wings. "Maybe this one will finally break me."

"Nah, as if anyone would swipe at butterflies, s'just cruel."

Aramis tried not to laugh, aiming a warning look up at Porthos' grin, the one that made Aramis' day better simply by seeing it.

And now he would be without it.

Porthos must have seen something on his face, a hint of the groaning loss opening within him, holes in his wings and his heart, because his voice softened slightly.

"Keep your window locked, alright?"

"You'll sneak in anyway," Aramis replied as he always did, fixing Porthos' smile in his mind even though it was hot to the touch, even though it threatened to kill him with its absence.

"The first thing I'll do when I'm back," Porthos promised, but his laugh was care-free and Aramis' was everything but.

Porthos was still fiddling with Aramis' sash, and Aramis was tempted to tell him to keep it, play it off as a joke, a keepsake, something to remember him by when Aramis couldn't forget him, but then it was thrust into his hands as Porthos pulled him in for a hug.

Sunshine and warmth enveloped him, bringing glitter in the form of dancing dust and a clearing of throats when Aramis buried his face in Porthos' neck and basked in the essence of him, in the coaxing of hot coals.

When Porthos finally eased them apart, he scrubbed at the skin that Aramis had screwed his eyes shut on. "Oi, you know I'm ticklish."

"Butterfly kisses," Aramis said miserably, but he dutifully smiled when Porthos chuckled.

"Cute, bet the girls love that one."

Aramis lifted his left shoulder in a shrug, not even able to keep up the façade when it felt as if his sun was setting for an entire month. That same shoulder lowered when Porthos' hand landed on it with a squeeze, a line of fire travelling down his arm to his wrist.

Porthos kept up the conversation, telling him that time would pass quickly, and Aramis just nodded and trotted after him, falling back reluctantly once they reached the stables, as if he could put it off, but he couldn't. The volcano had erupted, there was no time to evacuate.

Aramis had long since missed that chance.

Porthos mounted up – after a wink in Aramis' direction when he brandished a bottle of wine where his water should be – and held a hand out for his cloak.

Aramis held onto it, just for a moment longer, as if it would keep Porthos from leaving, but when a frown creased Porthos' brow, Aramis relinquished it, his hand falling somewhere short of Porthos' leg as he checked the saddlebags for supplies.

Porthos was stocked well, stocked for the long duration, for the days it would damage and the toil it would take, toil that Aramis wouldn't be there to ease, to share, to alleviate.

Porthos was still chipper as he said, "Paint me good to the newbie, won't you?"

"As if I would do anything but," Aramis replied, and smiled when it earned him a tug on his hair as Porthos rode out.

Aramis watched him go, feeling like a maiden watching her knight go to war where she couldn't watch over him.

The wings of his heart fluttered weakly, as if already missing what hadn't even gone, and when Porthos finally disappeared over the horizon, they closed to reveal the dull undersides.

Porthos did not look back, and Aramis did not stop looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a play on words, did you see? You know I love those. The titles are French wine-making terms, _millésime_ is the vintage date on a bottle. [Tumblr!](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com)


	2. Cuverie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been [away](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/post/135387935833/hello-hello-apparently-my-two-week-hiatus-turned) and that I'm terrible at updating, I'm sorry, but at last, chapter 2 for the second day of Christmas! _Cuverie_ is where grapes are first taken after harvest.

> When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.  
>  \- Oscar Wilde, _'The Picture of Dorian Gray'_

It took less than a month for Aramis' heart to flutter again.

Adrenaline was pouring through his veins, sending the jewelled wings in his chest into a frenzy, until they stilled so utterly that a stray wind would have sent him toppling into the dust.

There was a bandage around his wrist, clouds in the sky, a sword point against his throat, and he looked into the eyes of a man that had swiped at him, eyes which mimicked the overcast skies, the exact same weather that had heralded Porthos' departure.

And Athos' arrival that very same day.

Like the wasp that Porthos had named him, Athos had sting, and inspired fear in the hearts of men who had faced armies.

Aramis, however, had been too blinded with grief to do much more than offer the stranger at his captain's side a smile, his colourful nature muted as he welcomed a new brother to the garrison.

A brother who kept his shirt sleeves long and tied at the wrist, a sight which only prompted Aramis to thumb his own and mourn what was already a dulling warmth.

For once, not wanting to talk, to accommodate, Aramis simply suggested a spar, something to distract himself with as much as test out this man who held himself so proudly, a haughtiness not quite hidden by a scruff of beard and a twisted lip.

So entirely different from the man that had left an hour earlier, no amiable nature or easy smile.

No fluttering of his wings, even if this man was akin to a stiff breeze.

It was only when a sword rang out against his own did Aramis regain some of his vigour, when Athos raised a disparaging eyebrow at a foolish mistake which had Aramis flushing as if _he_ were the new recruit.

It was the grief, it clouded his judgement, his reactions, but the cloud dissipated with every snatch of sword song, with every moment that Aramis held his own against this competent stranger.

The world was a bit more vibrant when Aramis made a perfect shot on the practice range and Athos' mouth curved the tiniest amount at Aramis' preening.

There was some of his usual glitter returning to his smile, and although it had made Athos blink and shut down on him again – so soon after he had won the first genuine bit of emotion from the nonchalant man – it made Aramis feel better.

Yes, he was still counting the days until Porthos' return, but he would enjoy them as best he could, he could prove that he _didn't_ need that heat on his arm, whether it was an old love or new, he could find enjoyment elsewhere.

Enjoyment took the form of seeking out that elusive smile, the one that teased him from the corner of Athos' lips, but was suddenly whisked away on a frigid wind as if Athos had forgotten how to allow himself some happiness.

Enjoyment was finding that no matter how many people he introduced Athos to, it was Aramis who he returned to, Aramis who he gravitated to in a room – but always maintaining that strict amount of distance as if worried that Aramis might bring some _colour_ to his monochrome life.

Enjoyment was found in everything again, in making Athos roll his eyes at some flirtatious comment to a passer-by, in sacrificing the joyous rabble at the bar so that he could sit with Athos in the corner and earn one or two words and that same hint of a smile at a tall tale.

Aramis was _enjoying_ himself, and he thought that Athos might be, too.

It had become somewhat of a custom after a fortnight of their acquaintance to find Athos leaning outside the garrison archway, water dripping down his neck as he waited for Aramis to disentangle himself from whatever lovely lady had taken his mind off of things for a while.

It wasn't heat on his arm, but it was heat in his bed, and it was enough for now.

" _Bonjour, mon ami!_ Sleep well?"

"No, but at least I attempted some semblance of it." Athos pushed away from the wall so that they walked under the arch in tandem, the brief moment of shadow almost stealing the amusement in Athos' eyes.

But Aramis saw it.

Aramis also saw when to pry and when not to, and so rare was it that Athos bestowed even a scrap of truth upon him, he simply accepted the trust, the honesty of his night, with a grin.

One could barely see the dull undersides of his heart's wings now. They didn't flutter, not yet, there was no adrenaline in his veins or a sword at his throat, that would come later, but his wings were open wide to catch the eye of whomever might be looking.

Athos was to thank for that, for as much as Aramis was trying to settle him into Musketeer life, it allowed Aramis to do so once more too. It had been too easy to wrap himself up in Porthos' friendship, in the vain, painful _hope_ that something might happen, he had almost forgotten how to exist without him.

Aramis was learning to live a normal life too, with Athos.

"I'll have you know that I slept very well," Aramis replied seriously, already knowing just where the glimmer of Athos' humour lurked in his face. It was in his cheeks, the barest wrinkle to them as if the muscle remembered but the man did not. "A tiring day can do that."

"I'm sure your weekend was full of trials."

"And triumphs," Aramis remarked cheekily.

Athos gave him a look that Aramis had already become accustomed to – and if he was being honest, he rather enjoyed it.

It wasn't often he was chided these days. Porthos accepted everything he did with a laugh, Treville with a despairing shake of his head, but with Athos, Aramis found himself pushing his luck just to see what Athos would do.

Pulling on the devil's whiskers, his mother had called it.

Athos would make a fearsome striking _Satanas._

Aramis had already been asked who his brooding shadow was when he visited the brothels of an evening – an observation that seemed rather alarming when he realised the sultry-eyed women saw far more than they let on.

Spies came in all shapes and sizes, after all.

"The madame asked after you again," Aramis remarked as they waited in the yard for whatever duties Treville might give them.

Athos didn't flinch at the statement anymore, but his frown was more pronounced. "I hope you told her that her attentions are… appreciated, but not returned."

Aramis glanced up from under the brim of his hat with lewd intention laden thick in his words. "I took great care of her."

That earned him the look, that hint of a smile. "Of course you did."

It had surprised Aramis as much as Athos when the multitude of affections for Athos had come to light, and another surprise when Athos had declined all of them. Aramis wasn't blind, he knew Athos' qualities, but being in such close contact with him had made him very aware of his flaws, too.

Even if that reprimanding lift of one aristocratic eyebrow was something to behold.

"Shall I tell her that you might pop in presently?"

"No, you may not."

Aramis pretended to pout. "Spoilsport."

Athos turned to regard Aramis properly, and Aramis found himself wanting to fidget under his cool gaze, something expectant and warm making itself known in Aramis' throat.

It took a moment for him to realise it was interest.

It wasn't the fluttering of his wings – only Porthos caused that – but something small yet powerful, beautiful and fragile, and so unexpected as of late that Aramis simply stared at the man that had caused it.

The man that he would have termed Porthos' opposite two weeks ago.

"The last thing you require, Aramis, is more spoiling," Athos remarked dryly, showing an insight that Aramis hadn't realised but delighted in. It meant that Athos had been paying attention to him, had enjoyed their time together, the talks and tales.

It made him draw back a little, surprise a high pitch in his question, "Am I spoiled?"

Athos' expression was immediately wiped clear. "Forgive me."

Aramis tilted his head to the side, knowing he shouldn't be offended that Athos still wasn't entirely comfortable with him, that Athos still didn't realise Aramis viewed him as a friend. "Forgiven. Am I spoiled?"

The interest that Aramis had begun tending like the bud of a precious flower died a death when Athos' gaze slipped to Aramis' thoroughly marked wrist for a single second.

"Oh." The sound escaped without Aramis meaning it to, and as if shying away from the fat drops of rain that threatened to fall from the skies, Aramis turned away, his vibrancy fading once more.

Of course, the bevy of lines detailing his life's work, a life too widely lived.

For some reason the accusation hurt more coming from Athos than it had anyone else in the past, be they lovers or friends. Perhaps it was because Athos kept his own wrist covered – and perhaps that was done because Athos thought it vulgar to flaunt, to boast about something not to be proud of.

Perhaps he was right.

A cold drop of water hit Aramis' cheek and it was immediately joined by a warmer one that he couldn't stop from falling.

At Treville's call, Aramis dashed it away, swiped at it, as a wasp swipes at butterflies, and turned back with a stiffness to his jaw, his teeth gritting almost painfully.

It worsened when he saw the dawning horror on Athos' usually inexpressive face. "Aramis, I didn't—"

Aramis blinked away the sting in his eyes and looked at Treville with the same hollowness he had a fortnight ago. "What do you need of us, Captain?"

 

* * *

 

Aramis managed to avoid any direct conversation with Athos all day, using and abusing the recruits to keep him busy, to keep them between him and Athos, between his vulnerability and Athos' frown.

Sometimes Aramis forgot, forgot to not forge a path to Athos, to lean at his side, but the surprise in Athos' eyes always reminded him, reminded him to avert his eyes and hide his wrists again.

When it came time to correct stances, Aramis did not roll his sleeves up, he kept them low and annoying, and spoke loudly when Athos tried to murmur something that came out tentative.

Aramis flinched when Athos reached for him – the first deliberate touch since they had known each other – and Athos' fingers just had to land on that damning stretch of Aramis' left arm, hidden under fabric like it was something shameful.

A part of Aramis wanted to apologise for recoiling and causing that flash of hurt across Athos' face, but another part of him wanted to do it again, wanted to make Athos feel the same pain that Aramis felt every single day, wanted to bare his wrist and scream, _do you think I wanted this?_

When the day's training ended, Aramis left before Athos could say anything, but went not in the direction of the tavern or the brothel, but away, wandering, until dark fell and he could make his way back to the one place Athos wouldn't think to look for him.

But he did.

Athos stepped into the firelight thrown from the yard's brazier, and it was all Aramis could do not to succumb to the gooseflesh prickling under his clothes and escape the garrison, escape Athos' knowing eyes and his own heavy self-recrimination.

"You have been avoiding me," Athos remarked, voice pitched evenly until it spun through the air like a spider's silver silk, and hung heavily across Aramis' slumped shoulders.

Aramis bent his legs so he could lean his arms on his knees, the hard-packed ground an uncomfortable but fitting punishment for his transgressions – ones that he was also paying penitence to with bottles of wine. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The smallest smile curved Athos' mouth for a moment, and Aramis hated how much it pleased him, how much he _wanted_ Athos to smile despite everything else, wanted him to be _happy._

Curse his generosity, curse a friendliness that bared him as much as it bought him.

"If you have something to say, just say it, Athos," Aramis announced wearily, his chin resting on an arm – his right, but it was the left that Athos looked at.

Aramis was too despondent to curl his forearm against his stomach, and then too surprised when Athos sat next to him and added his own bottle of wine to Aramis' hoard, only to immediately take it back and open it.

Aramis waited, waited for the inevitable words, but when Athos opened his mouth, his halting reply took its time in coming. "I offended you today, but there was no offence meant."

Aramis tried not to sigh, not to relax at the apology, but it was impossible not to when faced with Athos' genuine confusion. "Forgiven—"

"No," Athos interrupted, "I want to understand."

Aramis hesitated, his thumb making an abortive gesture to his wrist, forcing himself to stop seeking the dubious comfort of Porthos' mark, and instead reaching for another bottle of wine.

If Athos noticed it – and Athos noticed everything – he did nothing other than look away and say quietly, "I have come to think of you as a friend, Aramis, and I did not think I was worthy of one – perhaps today has made it clear that I am not."

The noise that Aramis made was pained in its sympathy, in its desire to assure Athos that he _was_ deserving of that and more, but he knew Athos would only scoff if he said so – as he had whenever Aramis called him _brother_ – and so he helped Athos to understand something else, instead.

"You, perhaps correctly, said I was spoiled," Aramis admitted, slightly pained to be doing so but wanting – _needing_ – this offer of trust between them, one that had grown like that hibernating bud of interest and was being aided by alcohol, but it was trust just the same.

It was a trust that Aramis had felt bereft of today.

Athos reeled slightly as he searched for the correct words. "I meant only to reference your… _fortune_ in opportunities."

"Opportunities taken lightly," Aramis muttered, assuming that was what Athos meant, but Athos' frown was thoughtful and not just a little bit chiding.

"You should not feel shame about the amount, you know."

Aramis gave a self-deprecating snort, one that had Athos frown deepening. "No?"

Athos mutely shook his head, briefly touching his own covered wrist, and Aramis realised that Athos hadn't just been offering him some throwaway comment.

Athos had felt that bitter sting of shame before, too.

Aramis was so used to everyone else being completely comfortable with their wrists – although none bearing as many marks as him – that he sometimes forgot there were others who felt as he did.

What was on Athos' wrists, he wondered, what stories – what _life_ – was hidden beneath the neat, tied fabric of his sleeves?

Touched by the companionship offered by a man who brought wine as an apology, Aramis nibbled his lip and realised he wanted Athos to stay, to _talk_ , if only to ease whatever burdens weighted those unfailing shoulders. "Porthos says the same."

Athos tilted his head to the side at a name he had heard often over this last fortnight – although Aramis had been careful with quite _how_ highly he spoke of the man. "He's right."

"Not about everything," Aramis murmured with the help of a few bottles of wine, and offered Athos a jaded smile when he glanced up again.

The flames danced in Athos' eyes, like they were trying to escape the darkness of his pupils – or perhaps trying to jump in and lighten the void, as Aramis had been trying to do.

Athos didn't pry, didn't poke, he simply watched the fire and remarked, "It is no little thing to love."

Aramis was caught in the cohesion of Athos' profile, the proud jut of a stubborn chin, the poignant words leaving a sad mouth, and said distractedly, "There can be too much of a good thing."

"Can there?" Athos asked, and it wasn't a rhetorical question when that sharp, mournful gaze met Aramis'.

"I have more to lose." As soon as the words left Aramis' mouth, he knew they were wrong; it didn't matter about the amount, it mattered who it was. "Some marks cut more deeply than others."

He hadn't meant it as anything other than the emotional, but Athos inhaled sharply as if it had physically hurt him, his eyes falling shut and keeping the flames out, until they flickered uselessly over his eyelids.

"It doesn't matter how many, Aramis, as long as you love true."

It was Aramis' turn to inhale sharply, but it was a wondering thing. "You would be one of the few who believe I do, there are those who say I devalue love."

Athos' expression turned almost furious for some reason, and although Aramis had seen the same reaction on Porthos, it was more surprising coming from Athos, Athos who had said nothing either way about it before.

"Love is not proved in simple things such as marks on wrists or material goods; love itself is not simple, so how can it be proved to be?"

Athos' eyes had opened to ask it, but it wasn't a question Aramis felt he could answer – not least because his jaw had dropped, but Athos carried on regardless.

"Love is not a _thing_ , it is a state of mind, it is cruel and capricious and not bound by earthly qualities, it—" Athos broke off to stare at the fire again, and it looked as if it burned him. "The marks tell us our intent, but not the intent of those we mark; love does not come into it. Love happens, or it does not, marks or no marks."

So many questions clamoured at the tip of Aramis' tongue, but he tried not to voice them, not to know what caused the maddening melancholy in Athos' eyes.

Aramis wanted to know, wanted to crawl to Athos' side and lean against him, to offer him the warmth he so viciously tried to keep out, wanted to assure Athos that it could get worse, show him his own wrist as proof that it could.

In a way, he wished that Athos was right, because it meant that there was hope for his little red mark, hope for his life with a man who didn't carry a mark for him – and Aramis was ever one for hope, just as he was for love.

Aramis banished the other questions, the ones that would lay Athos bare when he prided himself on his mystery, and focused on a topic that had plagued great minds for centuries. "You think the two things are unrelated?"

"They must be," Athos said with forced determination, and yanked back his shirtsleeve with enough force to bruise the pale flesh beneath.

Aramis leaned closer and his lips parted in a gasp.

Athos had said not to feel shame about the amount of marks and Aramis had started to think Athos had his own abundance, but there _were none_ on Athos' wrist, no black or red lines, only scars, pink and white and almost invisible in the firelight.

But they were sideways.

Understanding was a slow rush that had Aramis wincing in sympathy. He had known a man who had lost his hand, doomed to never know the state of his love except on the wrists of others – but as Athos had said, he saw them only as intent, not proof.

Aramis finally looked away to see Athos' mouth a grim, tight line. "What happened?"

Athos' eyes never left his as he said quietly, "I killed her."

Aramis choked on a breath, his mind racing for a moment, wondering whether there was any truth to murderers and their marks, but then he looked at the scars, at the tearing of them, sideways across the vein, multiple pulls, made in terrible grief and awfully recent.

"You did this," Aramis whispered, and instead of pulling away as Athos had obviously expected, his fingers brushed the palm of Athos' hand, and Athos snatched it back, something terribly vulnerable in his eyes, the flames no longer dancing but clawing.

"I had her hanged," a ragged edge entered Athos' voice, "I thought I loved her."

That sentence might have meant something different to a people without marks on their wrists, and Aramis frowned to show as much. Athos' eyes closed, his head shaking slightly. "I did not love the woman she became, but the mark… it didn't change."

Aramis' frown deepened, unsure what to make of such a statement. "If the mark didn't change—"

"She was a murderer," Athos spat, his grip tight and painful around his wrist as if he could ignore it simply by covering it, "and cold-blooded or not, she had to die—"

The strangled noise Athos made nearly broke Aramis' heart.

"You still loved her."

The look Athos gave him was one of utter despair, of a well of guilt so deep that Aramis couldn't see the bottom. "The mark told me I did, when I didn't, _shouldn't_ , so I removed it, again and again until her mark disappeared, and so did she."

Disappeared, not died.

"You couldn't kill her," Aramis breathed, and Athos' jaw sharpened as he grit his teeth and hung his head, shame a palpable miasma around his shoulders, the shame of a man who had failed at his duties, both countly and courtly.

Aramis stared at that ruined wrist, one that would never again show Athos' marks – neither intent nor love – and realised what he had said that had affected Athos so. "Some marks cut more deeply than others."

"She didn't do this," Athos denied with quiet venom. "I did, when I failed her, and I did it again when she told me that I would always love her."

"You cut her out."

Athos' laugh was a horrible thing. "In more ways than one, and now I am left with the knowledge of what's in my heart, never on my wrist."

Athos took a deep mouthful of wine and hissed when it burned the back of his throat, his entire posture having turned silent and angry.

Aramis still wanted to crawl closer and lean against him, but no longer did he think he had it worse.

To not know, to not be able to _see_ his marks every single day was a punishment too great for him to think about, and all he wanted to do was rest his head against Athos' and offer him some comfort in the only way he knew how.

But Athos was not the type, nor was it the time, and so Aramis reflected as he nursed his wine.

"I always thought love a many-layered thing," Aramis admitted quietly. "There are people who fall in love in an instant and some that take a lifetime – some not even at all. What should it matter _who_ you love, as long as you love them?"

Athos' raised eyebrow was truly disparaging, but Aramis chose to ignore it and carried on.

"It is not the lover's fault who they fall for – as you say, the marks show intent, but my intent is love, and that _is_ simple."

Athos shook his head but it was more conversational than argumentative now. "You have had scars, faded lines, black, and red—" Aramis tried not to wince. "—were they all as simple as that, a mark on a wrist and not a series of emotions and struggles?"

"Well, no, but—"

"We liken love to something so easy, but it is anything but," Athos interrupted, and that bitterness reared its head again. "You're right, we cannot choose who we fall in love with, but we can choose to pick ourselves up and move on."

Aramis' eyes widened at that, and it felt as if Athos had stabbed him through his hopeful romantic's heart.

 _No,_ Aramis wanted to deny, _we can't,_ because love was exactly that, it was _not_ being able to move on, to leave, it was wanting somebody night and day and _following_ them just to be near them, and if they were apart then it was not being able to look at the mark on your wrist without feeling like _death—_

Aramis looked at Athos' scarred wrist and wondered whether he had considered it love once.

Aramis looked at his own and wondered what love was when Porthos had left and Aramis had picked himself up.

"Would you choose not to love?" Aramis asked finally, and didn't understand why Athos' attention snapped to him, why it darted to Aramis' wrist before meeting his eyes again.

"It is not that simple," Athos whispered, and abruptly cleared his throat, his tone turning dismissive as he pulled his sleeve back down his wrist and tied it tight enough to hurt. "And I would not know anyway."

Athos gave him a curt nod, but he lingered to respond in kind when Aramis wished him a good night before departing too.

Aramis went to sleep stroking his marks, his thumb resting again and again on Porthos' warm one, and every touch of that telling redness only reminding him of Athos' smooth, hypnotic voice in the firelight.

Love was not a simple thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on chapter 1, you have no idea how much they meant to me; I look forward to replying to them all when things have settled down! <3


	3. Égrappage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it wasn't clear, the marks form like [tally marks](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/post/136578177843/a-few-of-you-may-know-that-im-writing-a) (but without the strike-through; well... normally). _Égrappage_ is the removal of stems, or, in this case, stings.

> I talk of you:  
>  Why did you wish me milder? would you have me  
>  False to my nature? Rather say I play  
>  The man I am.  
>    
>  \- William Shakespeare, _'Coriolanus'_

There was no sunlight spilling through Aramis' window to fall on his marks the next day, instead the day was bright but overcast, a slight bite to the breeze but, with it, clarity.

To make a change from these years past, the first thing that crossed Aramis' mind was Athos, Athos who had spoken so softly and so sharply, Athos who had decided to live without love – tried to, at least.

Aramis stretched in his bed, alone in a room with an unmolested door, dressed only in his shirt and breeches from the night before, and he thought.

He thought about the ache in his chest, the sting of his wrist, the heat behind his eyes, and he thought of Athos.

Love hurt, that much was obvious.

Aramis didn't touch Porthos' mark when he awoke, he didn't touch it when he shaved, nor when he ate breakfast. He took great pains not to touch it when he dressed, able to clip on his leathers over his shirt and avoid it.

He looked at it, once, but he didn't touch it.

He would not, because he didn't have to, he was not bound to a fate dictated by his marks, he was not simply a life of loves and losses, he was more than that.

He would be.

There was a spring in Aramis' step as he walked to the garrison, a little forced, perhaps, but a spring all the same. He didn't bow to the ladies, smile at merchants, or call out to the children running about his feet.

He saved it all for Athos, though he wasn't sure why.

Except, perhaps, because he admired him, and in a way, he pitied him. Aramis' own bright wings were still yet, but he felt them close to fluttering, felt they had to be.

After all, he had picked himself up and moved on, hadn't he?

"Aramis—?"

The air in Aramis' lungs left him on a yelp as he flailed for purchase, the very ground seeming to despair of him as he fell towards it. There was no more than an inch between him and a nasty contusion when someone caught at his wrist.

The air returned on a painfully sharp inhale, as if it tore at his chest, and he pulled at his saviour's arm, picking himself up until he was steady again.

And looked straight into Athos' eyes.

"I didn't see you. Are you all right?"

Aramis blinked at the concern in pitch and pupil, both gone wide, one light and one dark, both interesting in a way that had Aramis stilling, his jewelled wings seeming on the verge of fluttering to keep him aloft.

"No, no," Aramis murmured, unable to pull away and too confused to try. "It was my fault."

Athos' fingers were still curled around his wrist as if still worried, and where Athos' thumb brushed below the crease between forearm and palm, it was chill to the touch.

Aramis saw the moment that Athos remembered the night before, and it was as if someone had shut a tentatively opening book, frayed pages flickering closed and obscuring everything that was within.

Athos dropped him as if he was a hot poker, his gaze returning – as it so often did lately – to Aramis' wrist before flicking back when he saw that his sleeves were pulled down.

Athos shut down on him.

It hurt when Athos turned away, and Aramis was suddenly acutely aware of how Athos must have felt yesterday. Aramis reached for him, his fingers brushing one stiff shoulder. "Where are you going? We have to muster soon."

Athos' mouth opened and closed, his gaze looking everywhere except at Aramis before finally nodding once, a small and reluctant thing.

It hurt.

"Athos, please," Aramis began, and it was the  _please_ that had Athos looking up in surprise, something like shame flickering through his eyes much like the flames had the night before. It left Aramis at a loss of what to say, what to do, and so he offered a lopsided smile. "Spar?"

Athos relaxed the smallest amount, amused dryness in his reply, "I can never deny that."

Aramis was tempted to sigh in relief, but instead it sounded like,  _no, you can't, can you?_

It hadn't escaped his notice that Athos attempted to lose himself in everything, be it wine or war – women being the only exception, apparently. He knew why, now, knew after seeing those silvered scars and a haunted expression.

Athos had picked himself up though – tried to, at least – and Aramis would do the same.

It wasn't as dire as loving someone who had done wrong, but perhaps it was just as wrong to love someone who would never love you back.

Aramis would pick himself up – he would try to, at least.

Aramis was about to draw his weapon, but with a clarity that came with the wind he decided to roll his sleeves up. They tightened just below his elbow, obscuring the most recent marks but announcing all the others.

To Athos' credit, he looked only briefly, and he inclined his head ever so slightly in a way that said it was the act of showing them that drew his attention, not the marks themselves.

It took one turn of the courtyard for Aramis to realise that was wrong.

Athos' gaze stuck like wax, warm and prickling down his wrist, always returning to just above his palm. If it had been his dominant hand then Aramis might have ignored it as another of Athos' tactics, but this wasn't strategising for Athos, it was distracting.

Thrice did Aramis' blade almost break through Athos' defence, and for a few moments he would regain Athos' full attention, but then it would drift again, returning to his wrist as if encapsulating it in thought, and Aramis had no idea why.

Athos had seen his marks before – not, perhaps, as close up as Athos had allowed him, but there was a sense of decorum in not baring one's soul for someone to pore over.

Athos had, though, and maybe Aramis should do the same.

For some reason, the thought felt  _wrong,_ as wrong as it felt when Porthos cast an idle look over it of a morning.

But then, what did it matter? Aramis was moving on, he would show Athos if it intrigued him so much – it was nothing but a betting board of marks, after all, hardly a window to his feelings, feelings that he was ignoring anyway.

Just like Porthos ignored his.

There was a shift in their pattern, Athos' footing moving on before Aramis' did, both of their attentions not where it should be; Aramis' on the locket around Athos' throat, and Athos' on the sword tip that sliced ever so neatly through Aramis' errant wrist.

The cry that tore itself from Aramis' throat told him two very important things.

Love was not simple, and he had not moved on.

Just like that, his entire being focused on his wrist again, as it always had done, and he cried out for a part of him that  _wasn't there_ , for a part that had  _left him._

Aramis dropped his blade into the dirt of the yard, unbridled terror flooding him like a burst dam as he clutched at the wound, blood seeping through his fingers to speckle the ground, and beneath all the pain was  _fear._

_What if it had cut through Porthos' mark?_

Athos' own blade fell with a clang and he tore at his shirt sleeve, wrenching the neat fabric from his left arm only to wrap it tightly around Aramis', anxiety opening his face like nothing else had.

"Aramis, I'm so sorry, I—"

Aramis cringed at the painful pressure of both fabric and fingers, and demanded fearfully, "How many times did you cut before it left?"

Athos' eyes widened so far that Aramis could almost see the bottom of that very deep well.

"Many," Athos said, barely a whisper. "Far too many."

"Good," Aramis breathed shakily, releasing the pressure around his bicep and shuddering under the fresh bursts of pain that thumped in frenzied time with his heartbeat.

Athos was still holding his hand, the pair of them looking at the same thing now, and it was the slow spread of red – such a familiar colour in that exact spot – that had Athos snapping out of whatever state that gripped them both.

"Come, we need to bind this properly."

Aramis stumbled along after Athos, guided by his grip, a grip that bordered on painful in its intensity, and found himself led into a room off the yard and nudged gently onto a bench against the wall.

Aramis sat there in a daze, letting the once-white fabric of Athos' shirt grow damp as he brushed a thumb over the space he knew Porthos' mark resided.

It  _hurt_ , it hurt his chest and his eyes and his heart, and it hurt enough to tell him that Athos' sword had cut straight through it.

A cry threatened to claw its way out of his throat, one of grief, bereavement of something he had never even had, but he stifled it when Athos returned with a bucket and bandages. Athos was a man on a mission, hesitating only when he slowly unwound Aramis' wrist and kept it hidden from his sight.

"It's gone, hasn't it?" Aramis could barely get the words out, thick as they were with something unshed – and unsaid.

Athos glanced at him, closed off again but with that same guiding grip about his palm, and warned, "Take a deep breath."

Aramis almost came off of his seat when the alcohol spilled against his skin, sealing fate and fissure alike with a cry that had Athos flinching even as he continued to tend to him.

"Aramis," Athos murmured after the scrubbing had stopped and Aramis was still drumming his heels against the floor. "Look."

Aramis opened one eye to peer downwards, and framed between Athos' deft, pale fingers, was his first row of marks.

One thin red line sliced horizontally through them.

It was a sob rather than a sigh that escaped him, relief and regret mingled into one, because it seemed  _fitting_ , didn't it, to have his unrequited love marked thusly, his first row cast off as failed.

Still, Aramis couldn't help but touch it, his fingers brushing Athos' suddenly stiff ones as he sought out that warm – ever so warm in comparison – connection to a man who seemed a world away.

Finally, when the wound threatened to weep again, Athos moved his hand away and began the process of binding it properly, boiled strips of fabric winding forever about his wrist. Athos' careful, confident movements giving Aramis something to rely on when it felt as if he was being separated from his soul.

"You are  _not_ to take this off, Aramis, do you understand me? Not for a wash, not for rebinding, and certainly not to check up on its progress. It will need unhindered healing if you want there to be as little of a scar as possible."

Aramis felt his lower lip slide forwards at Athos' warning tone, but instead of the smile it usually earned him, it was met with steely eyes and a stubborn jaw, and Aramis slumped.

As Athos tied the final knot, Aramis asked uncertainly, "How will I know if they fade?"

"They won't," Athos assured, his own wrist in his hand once again, a memory of pain slashing across his face as he sat in a chair opposite Aramis. "It takes much more than that."

Aramis tried to stare through the bandage and thought,  _that's not what I meant._

The danger having passed, the silence seemed almost uncomfortable between them, as it hadn't for nearly three weeks, and Aramis wasn't sure if it was his fault or not.

"Aramis, I can't apologise enough, I don't know what came over me, I just…" Athos trailed off, suddenly awkward, and Aramis couldn't help but sigh despondently.

"I know, I have so many."

Athos' attention fully returned to him, his brow furrowing in that chiding way of his, and despite everything else it made Aramis relax a little, made him want to lean into Athos and simply try to find his breath, his  _rhythm_ , again.

"No, no, I told you that you needn't worry about that," Athos said in a way that might have been earnest but ended up more… amazed, and Aramis realised that Athos was looking at one place in particular. "Your first line, it's red."

The very same mark that Athos had subconsciously grabbed earlier when he had fallen.

Aramis went to touch it immediately, needing the comfort of something he had known almost all of his life, but only cotton rubbed back, and he could have cried at the loss. "So?"

Athos' fingers went to his own wrist, still bared as if he had forgotten he had ripped off his sleeve to bind Aramis' wound.

"Aramis, I lived in a world where wrists were bound and if there was any love at all it was short and sharp, but you," Athos made a breathless noise that Aramis couldn't decipher, "you have loved all your life."

Aramis gave a wet laugh, shocking Athos enough into recoiling slightly as if such blatant emotion was foreign to him. Aramis tried to hold it all back, but it was too late, the flood gates were opening, and he blurted, "All well and good if he loved me back."

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut, hoping beyond all hope that he hadn't said that out loud, hadn't bared his heart just because of some smidgen of affection from a man who rightfully said that love wasn't simple and the marks less so.

After seconds passed, Aramis looked to see Athos simply blinking at him, still slightly startled, but it dawned upon Aramis that it was more at his honesty than anything else.

And then Athos turned angry, and Aramis started to panic.

"Who in their right mind could turn down such a gift?" Athos snapped, and the faintest of colours flushed his cheeks when Aramis' jaw dropped in surprise. "I mean, of course, a love that has lasted all this time."

Aramis let out another little sob, one that almost manifested into a fervent desire to be hugged at that very moment, but although Athos shifted slightly in his seat, he still didn't know Aramis well enough to realise what he wanted.

But then Athos' hand reached out to still Aramis' shaking one.

"Aramis," Athos began, faltering slightly but firming when Aramis' fingers curved around his, seeking any sort of comfort. "Aramis, I would not be the friend I hoped to be if I judged you on anything – except, perhaps, your tendency to show off."

Aramis hiccupped, forcing a frown. "I have talents that the world must know about."

The very corner of Athos' mouth tugged upwards slightly. "Too many talents, perhaps."

Aramis looked down, unsure if his smile was pleased or embarrassed, and with Athos' hand still safely entwined with his, he abandoned himself to hesitancy. "He doesn't know."

Confusion lay lightly across Athos' forehead. "Who?"

"Porthos."

There was a tiny click as Athos' mouth parted, and Aramis realised that Athos hadn't been asking who it was, he just hadn't understood that Aramis had gone this long without telling the object of his affections.

And now Aramis had told him the one secret he had promised himself he would take to the grave.

A rush of curses escaped on a breath, exhausted and desperate and hopeless.

The silence was painful, Aramis refusing to look up and Athos refusing to look away, until his attention felt like a brand that snaked from his wrist to his face – a brand that probably said,  _traitor, sinner, liar,_ _ **wrong**_ _._

And then Athos' fingers tightened ever so slightly around his.

"It's red," Athos said again, and it rang with realisation, with what that meant as someone with no marks of his own; an insight into a world that he had never lived – may never live if he truly believed that love was too painful a thing to endure.

Aramis wholeheartedly agreed with him in this moment.

Aramis hung his head and with it came a decade of guilt that softened his voice into a sigh. "I'm his closest friend in the whole world but… he  _is_  my world."

Athos took a sharp breath, looking at Aramis as if he was something special, and Aramis flushed, unsure if he had ever been on the receiving end of a look like that before, didn't even know what it meant, especially when Athos started to frown.

There was a falter in Athos' voice too, but it seemed more curious than hesitant – and anything was better than disgust. "He never asked about the mark?"

"I bound my wrist, so tight that first night that I nearly lost my hand. Porthos…" Aramis pursed his lips together for a moment. "Porthos doesn't ask questions. He doesn't like making people uncomfortable, so he'll wait for you to tell him, and if you don't, he doesn't mind."

"Whereas you would want to know," Athos remarked with a hint of a smile at his lips.

Aramis' laugh was entirely self-deprecating. "Everything, and I did. Porthos doesn't ask but he shares, especially his happiness, as if he wants you to feel it too, to be as happy as he is." Aramis' humour was somewhere between affectionate and bitter. "He was so excited about his first mark, proudly showing his wrist when all the while mine was aching from the binding."

Athos' reply was quiet and filled with sympathy. "Who was it?"

Aramis rubbed at his eyes with his other hand, the intensity of how hard he squeezed his temples at odds to the lightness of his voice, the truth to the lie. "A girl from the streets, like him, clever and mischievous and I hated her."

Athos' eyebrow raised at the change in emotion but not in tone, and, as usual, Athos' question went unvoiced.

Aramis shrugged, aiming for unconcerned and ending up hostile. "Because she was allowed to love him and I wasn't."

Athos mulled the words over with a frown. "Why didn't you hate  _him_?"

"What do you mean?"

Athos looked at him strangely. "You hated her for loving him, but not him for loving her?"

"It wasn't his fault," Aramis defended easily, and a sliver of amusement broke through Athos' expression.

"By that logic it wasn't hers either."

Aramis gave him a little glare. " _I_ loved him, we were almost inseparable as children; he was  _mine._ "

A muscle twitched in Athos' cheek. "How possessive of you."

"Stop teasing me," Aramis grumbled, and Athos sobered immediately, too quickly, and Aramis almost felt bad for shutting down that rare glitter – until he saw it in Athos' eyes and had to smile at the sight of it.

"I'm very sorry," Athos said dutifully.

"Yes," Aramis replied dryly, "you look it."

Athos looked away for a moment, something at his lips, before he tilted his head to the side. "I  _am_ sorry, it's not often I'm confronted with this much generosity in life."

Aramis' brow raised in weary surprise. "Am I being generous?"

"You loved— love," Athos corrected himself even before Aramis could wince, "and don't demand anything in return. You still give your friendship, share it, even, with others." Athos shrugged slightly, a downplayed thing. "As I said, I am used to marriages of alliance, not of love, certainly not a life of friendships. It is… admirable."

Being under Athos' shrewd gaze was almost as bad as the wondering one, as if he was being looked at body and soul – in a way, he was. "You said that bound wrists were commonplace?"

Athos nodded, humour disappearing. "It became a fashion statement, mother-of-pearl bands and silk gloves. It was dishonourable to go without. Evidently the same couldn't be said for here?"

"My family were not wealthy, and the world outside the palace was an open one – in some respects," Aramis added the last a little bitterly, for even his copious marks would not be seen as being as shameful as his taste for both sexes. "It is only those who are ashamed who bind their wrists, those that have something to hide. The brothels – both girls and guests – have a binding rule."

"Why?"

Aramis felt as if he should sag under the weight of the world. "There are some who become offended when they aren't the sole light in somebody's life, even somebody they think only to use."

Athos gained a disgusted look and muttered, "It's nobody else's business."

Aramis stretched, maintaining his hold on Athos' hand when it looked as if he would move away, when Aramis still wanted to feel something warm when his wrist ached so. "No, it isn't, but such is life."

He received another of Athos' strange looks but it was wiped away almost instantly. "How did you not draw attention to your mark, then?"

"Between long sleeve shirts and leather gauntlets, it was manageable, and by the time we joined the Musketeers, there were more to marks to hide it." Aramis' hand drifted up his forearm to trail amongst the myriad others.

Athos watched the movement almost raptly. "Anonymity amongst a crowd."

"Exactly," Aramis sighed, tired of being exactly that, just another face, another brother, nothing more, when to Aramis it was like having a compass embedded in his skin that only ever pointed to one person.

"If others were not so courteous regarding your marks – and if I understand correctly you were together a lot," Athos remarked, something stilted in his voice, "did nobody ask whilst Porthos was in hearing?"

"Once, and I panicked," Aramis muttered, fingers pinching his temples in a vain effort to forget. "There was a time after realising that Porthos would never feel the same way where I  _drowned my sorrows_ , per se."

Humour finally returned to Athos' expression. "Why do I feel that it wasn't with wine?"

"The all-seeing Athos," Aramis murmured with an exhausted laugh, slumping further in his chair. "It was a rare summer that my parents and I returned home to the country, and without Porthos around I… travelled."

"You sampled the delights of the villages?"

Aramis snorted at Athos' sarcasm. "Indeed, and as seems to be my lot in life, I fell in love – a tale that rather corroborates your theory on love being anything but simple, actually. Her name was Isabelle, she fell pregnant."

Athos' eyebrow raised, and Aramis realised he hadn't seen it happen with that much neutrality in a while.

It seems he could fall even further in Athos' eyes, and no doubt he would fall forever, for he only seemed to continue making mistakes.

There was no way to pick himself up again – in Athos' regard or, indeed, in life – but Athos had not left and Aramis was still holding his hand, and so he carried on. "I told Porthos that the first red line was Isabelle, but it wasn't, look, I know where she was."

Athos didn't look, he simply asked, "Was?"

"My first fade," Aramis replied quietly, thumb smoothing over the mark but once again encountering that cotton wall, bereft of the spike of heat over red that lingered to its left.

Once again, Athos didn't ask, simply remained close by and let Aramis' fingers curl tighter against his as he finally spoke about things that had been weighing on his heart for all of this time.

"I felt  _guilty,_ guilty for not loving her anymore, as if I had abandoned her, but she abandoned me too, she chose to leave after losing the child," Aramis explained exasperatedly. Athos' gaze fell away to his self-inflicted scar, and Aramis knew that his own guilt was incomparable to Athos', and he sighed at the simple answer to complexity. "Maybe it would be best to not be able to see."

Athos frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Aramis' hand once again swept up his arm and traced a fingertip over a black line amidst a sea of blank spaces and scars. "Everyday I'm faced with the knowledge that a man I loved still loves me."

Athos' brow furrowed further, the cogs of his brain working out the timing of that mark, but even Aramis had lost all frame of reference but for those bursts of colour in his life.

Athos didn't ask, he was too polite for that, and so Aramis answered anyway.

"He left."

Aramis saw the moment Athos compared it to Porthos, saw his own realisation of why he took Porthos' leaving so badly.

Marsac had never come back to him either, so why would Porthos?

Porthos didn't even love him.

"I wait for it to fade, but it doesn't, and sometimes I think it's faded a little, and I'm terrified it's scarring, I still care." Aramis exhaled angrily, shaking his head at his own foolishness. "Why do I still care, why does a small part of me still love him, love so many?"

Athos' mouth parted slightly but no sound came out, his frown reappearing and disappearing before he finally lifted his other hand to reach for Aramis', a hand that he hadn't realised was squeezing Marsac's mark painfully.

Athos loosely linked their fingers together, a tentativeness to his grip even as he lowered his chin to look Aramis in the eye, until Aramis thought he might finally see the bottom of that deep well, and it glimmered.

"Because you are a good man, Aramis, you have love to give and you do so, and that can never be a bad thing," Athos said, the determination in it so sincere that Aramis was almost inclined to believe it.

"Love is an infinite thing, it isn't selfless to share," Aramis muttered, and felt the surprise in a twitch of Athos' fingers.

"Perhaps it is," Athos replied quietly, "but there are still many who don't."

"What good has it done? I have scars, blank spaces, these nightmarish red lines," he hissed, jerking his head at the other flash of bright scarlet, the one right before his elbow.

Athos dropped his hands, startling Aramis into looking up, into feeling miserable, because even Athos had apparently given up on him.

But Athos simply joined him on the bench, hands hanging between his legs, wrists turned aside, and said softly, "You gave them some happiness, and that, at least, is simple."

Aramis blinked at Athos' profile, at that dichotomous sensation of emotion from a toneless mouth, and wished that he could give some of that happiness to Athos.

At an itch high on his forearm, Aramis distractedly pulled his sleeves down, covering marks and binding alike, and with a weariness he felt deep in his soul, rested his head on Athos' shoulder.

Athos shifted slightly, causing Aramis to glance up to see Athos raising an eyebrow at him, and then the smallest smile curved those stoic lips.

And it was simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Athos like a fragile bud closed for winter and Aramis/Porthos as the warmer months to coax him open is my favourite thing. Athos' petals are pitch-black on the outside, but a soft silver within - not quite white, definitely not pearl, but precious nonetheless.


	4. Mistelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how you sometimes you find a **perfect** quote, not just for the chapter, but the entire AU, too? Well, this is mine. If you Google the entire poem, it's gorgeous and entirely appropriate for both Aramis and Athos.

> I prithee send me back my heart,  
>  Since I cannot have thine;  
>  For if from yours you will not part,  
>  Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?
> 
> – John Suckling, _'I prithee send me back my heart'_

Every day since Porthos had left, Aramis had awoken with his fingers on his wrist, but this time, something felt different.

His fingers were wrapped around his elbow, a faint sense of itchiness pervading his dreams. It felt like when a wound was healing, the skin stitching itself together, making space for new marks and scars.

The ones caused by weapons, not by love.

It stung just the same though, his forearm muscles twitching as he loosened his grip and the blood flooded through.

It hurt.

Drowsily, he looked to his wrist only to blink at the cotton bands that glared back at him, and yesterday returned in a rush.

As did the pain.

With an irritated noise, he flipped onto his back, keeping his arms above his head and out of his way, out of his sight. If he looked at them, he would want to unwrap his wrist, and Athos said that he shouldn't.

He was not foolish enough to risk Athos' wrath, even if the thought made him want to laugh laugh.

Athos had warned him another dozen times over the day, always appearing out of the woodwork whenever Aramis' attention drifted to his wrist again, like a guardian angel – but one with a scowl that heralded storms instead of sunshine.

Athos was a surprisingly stern nurse and it gave Aramis something to smile about as he considered any possible casualties in the future – at least Athos would do as he ordered. Aramis was supposed to be the resident medic after all, he knew his arm was itchy because it was healing, he knew to leave it alone.

He never had been very good at following his own advice though, and his hand was halfway to his wrist before he averted it and yanked his sleeves from below his elbow and tied them tightly.

It was an eerily familiar move, but at least it was done without venom this time, done without shame.

It would heal, and so would Aramis. Athos hadn't brought up Porthos' mark again, hadn't even brought up Porthos, and for that Aramis was grateful. If there was no hope for he and Porthos, he would have to live with that, just as he would with the mark on his wrist, because he didn't think he would ever stop loving him.

But if loving him meant watching him grow old with somebody else, at least it meant that Porthos would be happy.

Athos had said that he gave people happiness, and that was what he would do.

He wasn't moving on, but he was picking himself up, and he would drag Athos along with him. Theirs was an unlikely friendship, but Aramis had enjoyed these last few weeks with Athos, interspersed with drama as they had been.

And he thought that Athos might have enjoyed them too.

With the learned knowledge of someone who was used to being sneaked up upon, Aramis' head cocked to the side at the faint creak of a floorboard, at the acute _knowledge_ that there was someone outside of his door.

Anticipation had him stilling, straining for noise, for an indication, and a persistent voice told him that it was his imagination.

There was a tiny scratch and Aramis thought he might be sick, but he wasn't sure why.

Then there was a polite knock at the door.

"Athos," left him on a breath, his lips curving slightly.

Of course Athos knocked instead of letting himself in.

Aramis forced himself from his bed, dragging a hand through his hair as he opened the door, only to see Athos open his mouth and not say anything.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Aramis yawned, waving Athos in as he turned around to finish getting dressed.

"Yes," Athos replied after a moment, but stayed hovering in the doorway. "You need to exercise your wrist."

Aramis tossed an amused smile over his shoulder, distractedly wondering why it took a moment for Athos' gaze to reach his, and when it did, it seemed embarrassed. "I do know how a healing wound works, you know?"

Aramis expected a witty rejoinder, maybe even something teasing, but perhaps it was too early for that – it was certainly far too early to be clipping on the last of his armour and joining a silent Athos in the hallway.

In the light of the day, Aramis noticed that Athos was bone-dry and carrying a parcel of some sort. "No bucket wake up today?"

Athos' stride slowed slightly, as if surprised that Aramis had noticed. "I fetched us breakfast instead, I thought you wouldn't take kindly to my waking you."

Aramis laughed, light and easy, pleased when Athos' surprise turned to a smile. It grew when Aramis rapturously devoured the freshly baked goods that Athos had brought, and a few crumbs were all that remained as they approached the yard.

"You eat very daintily, Athos."

Athos gave him a smirk, one that lasted through the brief shadow of the archway and into the bright light of day. "Is that a compliment or a criticism?"

"Neither, it's a fact – although I suppose it is also a compliment," Aramis added thoughtfully, in the hopes of making Athos duck his head, but all it earned him was that chiding look he enjoyed so much.

"So by rights I should criticise you for inhaling that pastry in one breath?"

Aramis rested his fingertips over his heart, silently delighted by Athos' hitherto-hidden sense of play. "Wounded, _monsieur,_ I am wounded."

Athos cocked his head to the side, pretending to frown. "Are you asking for a spar, or have I already won?"

Aramis took a dramatic breath before narrowing his eyes good-naturedly. "I thought showing off was deplorable?"

"Yours is, mine is simply good foresight."

Athos' casual shrug made Aramis grin, made him push Athos on the arm and laugh when Athos simply smiled, the pair of them unable to keep up the grim façade of a supposed duel.

"Very well, Oracle Athos," Aramis announced, sliding his sword from its sheathe with a flourish. "Let us test your mettle with metal."

Athos rolled his eyes, the pale blue seeming even paler in the bright light of the courtyard. "Deplorable."

Aramis grinned, wider when Athos settled into a stance so naturally that it might have been missed by anyone else. Athos always stood as if ready for a battle, as if ready to win – because there _was_ pride in the straightness of his spine and the lift of his chin.

It wasn't showy, it wasn't sweeping gestures and cocky smiles, but it was there, cold and implacable.

Until Aramis bowed far too deeply, and peeked up to see the very edge of Athos' mouth upturned in a wry smile. "Deplorable."

Aramis launched, vainly hoping to catch Athos off-guard, but they were both in good moods today, their concentration at its highest as they stepped around each other, flowing like wind through trees or water through grass.

Adrenaline flickered like sparks of fire on a dark night, happy and delighted, and Aramis revelled in the joy of sparring with someone who could take him, someone who wouldn't occasionally shove him to try and gain the upper-hand.

Sparring with Porthos was fun, but it was only ever one surprised breath away from turning into a wrestle, with Aramis either over Porthos' shoulder or face-first in the dirt.

It wasn't predictable with Athos, far from it, the man was far too clever to be anything other than dangerous, but at least he bowed to the rules of a simple spar.

Although simple was the word of the hour.

"The ladies are still pining for you, Athos," Aramis said, sidestepping a clearly projected swipe for daring to engage in banter during a fight – a habit picked up from Porthos. "Imagine what they would say if they saw you in the middle of a bout?"

" _Get that madman away from me_ , I'd imagine," Athos replied dryly, his breathing barely altered despite the unimpressed look he gave at Aramis' penchant for bringing up the women who thought his shadowed brow appealing.

" _Au contraire,_ they love a man in uniform, and you scrub up very well."

Athos' eyebrows raising was the only tell he gave away, his graceful movements never faltering. "Another compliment?"

"What sort of man would I be if I didn't assure my friend of his good qualities, numerous as they are," Aramis continued, his smile spiked with teeth when Athos glanced at him before sliding away from a move that would have gutted him.

"Who are you trying to convince, me or them?"

"You, apparently."

Athos frowned slightly, a faint flush to his cheeks that didn't speak of exertion. "My good qualities are few and far between," Athos said with determination, and when Aramis opened his mouth to roundly deny it, their eyes caught again. "Unlike yours."

Joy flooded Aramis' system, shy and delighted and enraptured with a compliment from a man who smiled once in a blue moon.

Athos smiled now, for him, and Aramis hesitated so that he could properly see it, enjoy it…

Love it.

There was a bandage around his wrist, the skies were overcast, and all of a sudden Athos had him by the throat, sword tip as cold as a memory on his wrist.

Aramis' lips parted and he swayed almost instinctively towards Athos, who pulled the line of steel away before Aramis could choke himself on it.

Aramis stumbled, and as he did so, the long-stilled wings of his heart fluttered.

"You hesitated," Athos chided, blissfully unaware of the confusion consuming Aramis' system, confusion that began and ended with Athos.

Athos who had shown up on the flip side of an erupting volcano and brought another type of instability into Aramis' life, Athos who swiped and stung but apologised afterwards, Athos who sought Aramis out each and every day and _smiled_ when he did so.

Athos who had given up on love and Aramis had been determined to help him find it.

Except that it had gone a bit wrong.

Aramis blinked dazedly, his heart going at a million miles a minute as his wings fluttered uselessly in his chest, startled and stymied and stuttering when Athos lowered his sword and frowned.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Aramis' hand had gone to his throat, his finger pressing where the sword tip had, and although Aramis felt as if he had been cut, it wasn't there that he felt it.

_Oh no._

"I— I need to get something," he managed to stammer, and turned on his heel, vainly trying to ignore Athos' calls when all he wanted to do was stay with him, because his heart told him he had to.

Because it had been telling him so for the past few weeks.

If Aramis ran, it was the run of someone whose body had betrayed them, the run of someone who wasn't sure if he was running from the past or the future.

Aramis fumbled for his key, for his door, for the ties of his sleeves as he shoved his back against the wood and began to lift the fabric from his wrist. The bandages were still there, still painful, still poignant, but Aramis muttered the names he knew were there anyway, until he reached the marks he could see.

Memories came back to him, discarded as he went further up his arm, the same names he had whispered into their ears of an evening, and now it was into the stilted air of his room, locked away and vaguely terrified.

So often had he despaired of reaching the last viable line before the crease of his elbow, there had been two there already, but it was the penultimate line of marks that had Aramis pausing.

There was a blank space, a blank space where there should have been royal red.

But he had seen it yesterday when he was arguing with Athos, he had seen a painfully bright flash of red, as sharp as the other on his wrist – and the one that cut through it.

Aramis' fingers shook as he pulled his sleeve up to the crook of his elbow.

There was the red.

One glimmering new red line, right at the end.

There was a polite knock at the door, and as if it were an echo of that morning, one name left him on a breath.

"Athos."

 

* * *

 

Aramis' breaths came too quickly, they were short and shallow and sharp and _shamed,_ shamed at loving someone who didn't love themselves, who didn't love anything, let alone him.

_Let alone him._

It was happening again, as if he were seeing his life play out in the surface of a still pond, again and again and again; rocks dashed the image and sent everything rippling, water weighing heavily on his wings, dragging him down, disabling him.

Destined to love those who would never love him back.

Aramis' eyes closed and one wet sob escaped the clawing muscles of his throat.

The knock came again, and he felt it this time, a slight reverberation against his back, tickling his spine and trembling down his arm, twitching at his fingers.

He flexed them, drew them tight against his palms, fingernails pushing into the flesh, and then he inhaled slowly.

If it was happening again, he knew how to deal with it, he had done this before – he had done this all his life – he knew how to cope with a love unreturned.

He knew very well.

Aramis swept his sleeves down and opened the door with a beatific grin, insistent on appearing nothing less than perfectly fine, happy, and _simple._

Athos immediately frowned, because he _knew_ Aramis by now, but not well enough, it would never be enough. "What have you done?"

A breath shuddered out of him, but it was quiet, easily hidden, _like the broken remnants of his heart._

"Done?" Aramis announced breezily, leaning on the open door as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Athos' narrowed eyes slid to his wrist, and his voice brooked dire warning, a warning that set a trembling off in Aramis' stomach. "Have you unwrapped it?"

Aramis hesitated a second too long and Athos reached for him, fingers grazing his shirt sleeves before Aramis snatched his arm away, hating the hurt across Athos' face, but hating the thought of another unrequited love even more.

Aramis wanted to cry, wanted to know how this had happened, how had he fallen for Athos, the wasp to his butterfly?

Before, before their friendship, Athos would have turned away from him, fled from his flinch, but now his frown gentled somewhat, his own fingers curling in on themselves as Aramis' had done. "What is it?"

Aramis' stiff spine softened.

That was why, because Athos didn't always sting, sometimes he soothed, because love was no simple thing, and it was Athos who had said so.

Athos who didn't believe in love, who didn't _want_ to believe, and Aramis who believed that love was what made life worth living.

"It hurts," was all Aramis said, his voice so awfully small, and he felt the pain keenly throughout his chest, felt it tear itself apart when Athos frowned.

"It's healing, Aramis; you have suffered worse wounds than this."

A humourless laugh trickled from Aramis' lips, his nod a slight, frivolous thing. "Yes, and yet it always feels as if it hurts a little more."

Something like a smile curved Athos' mouth. "I should have known your tendency for drama would make itself known in this, too."

Aramis hung his head, not knowing how to respond, how to _react_ to the man who saw him as a deplorable fool, one hopelessly in love and hopeless in life.

Athos took a step forward, hesitantly reaching into Aramis' space, fingers making an abortive gesture towards him before falling to the side again, despite how much Aramis ached to feel them, despite how much he knew Athos _didn't_ touch. "Come, you were all smiles, earlier?"

Aramis tried one, tried _anything_ when he felt as threatened by this fresh buffet of wind in a tornado as he had by a rumbling volcano all those weeks ago.

The ache in his heart seemed to double at the memory of Porthos, seemed to make a concerted effort to break him, and Aramis huffed a bitterly amused sigh. "Sometimes even I have bad days, Athos."

The hand moved again, but this time it folded over the other; Athos crossed his arms, a braced stance and a raised eyebrow that managed to turn Aramis' wobbly smile into a steadier one. "Surely you aren't expecting _me_ to be the leavening force, are you?"

Aramis peeked upwards, and what he saw was startling, and wonderful.

Athos was smiling.

Aramis had seen it before, of course, treasured each one, every hard-earned emotion and glimmer of amusement, but he had never noticed quite how nicely that barest curve suited the man whose mark now resided on Aramis' arm.

It was a smile that twisted higher in one corner, and might have appeared mocking if it wasn't for the humour glittering in those bright-sky eyes. A humour that lightened his face, relaxed it, sending crinkles astride his cheeks and laughter lines about his eyes, as if he had laughed a lot once, and now he was finally doing so again.

Beneath it all, the turmoil and the tremors working their way through Aramis' system, he had to wonder who else had made Athos smile.

And perhaps feel a little bit smug that it was he who was causing it now.

"What if I am," Aramis questioned, a sense of play reawakening with the rarity of Athos' smiles, a sense of _chase_ reawakening with that itch on his arm. "Perhaps I'll shoulder the weight of the world for once."

Athos blinked before scoffing, some tension releasing from his shoulders. "Even if my issues were so poetically inclined, I would still rather I carry them than you."

"How selfless of you." Aramis didn't deny the little thrill of warmth that seared him at that sweet statement, and had to laugh softly when Athos frowned before realising he was being teased.

There was a humoured huff. "Is this my choice, a sullen Aramis or a deplorable one?"

"Yes," Aramis replied, something like a grin pulling at his lips. "Which will it be?"

Athos leaned into a hip, gaze dropping in faux thought, but Aramis felt it like the caress it wasn't. "A Gordian knot," was all Athos said, and Aramis' brow furrowed slightly, disappointed that Athos hadn't continued their game.

Hadn't declared his love for him, but then Aramis hadn't really been expecting that.

For the briefest possible moment, Athos' fingers brushed his cheek, and as Aramis' jaw dropped, it shut with a click when Athos said with an undertone that seemed almost wicked, "I prefer speechless."

Aramis stared after Athos' back as he turned to walk back down the hallway with a called, "We are officially late for muster, you know."

Aramis' own fingers ghosted over his skin, and with an impossibly small smile, he scrambled after Athos with a fluttering thump in his chest and a firm hand over his heart.

Not so simple, but a lot less painful.

 

* * *

 

"This is your fault, you know."

Aramis shouldn't have smiled at that irritated remark, but it came from the mouth of a man who tossed him the apple he had just bartered from the market vendor.

Apples were Aramis' favourite, when had Athos learned that?

They were on street patrol, widely touted amongst the garrison as the worst detail on offer – aside from parade duty, naturally.

"It is not my fault that Treville was in a bad mood." Aramis held a hand up even before Athos could slide him a look. "Yes, we were late, but he wasn't in high spirits before that."

Athos slid him the look anyway. "And you know this, how?"

Aramis didn't answer straight away, and his voice had quietened enough when he did that Athos had to walk closer just to hear him, and if Aramis silently delighted in the brush of their arms, he kept it to himself.

"Because I know the look of a man who pines."

Aramis had expected a sharp glance, but instead Athos merely shook his head. "That wasn't pining, it was frustration."

"Are they not one and the same thing?"

"No, pining is reminiscent of glowing sunsets and overfull hearts, Treville was _yearning_ , more akin to being _un_ fulfilled _,_ than overfull _._ "

Aramis wasn't sure what he gaped at, whether it was the poetic accuracy of Athos' description, or the clearly lewd intention in those last three words. "That is surprisingly base for you, Athos."

It was only now that slyness entered Athos' voice, even as his eyes continued to scan the street. "It wasn't intended that way. Interesting, though, that you took it to be."

Aramis flushed, scowling at Athos' profile despite a small part of him delighting in it. "You are teasing me."

"A novelty, isn't it?"

"Quite," Aramis attempted his driest imitation of Athos, and it earned him a soft laugh, one that felt like a whisper against Aramis' warm cheek.

 _Novel_ described so much about what Aramis was feeling right now.

Where he had expected upheaval, distress, that familiar longing to situate itself in his chest as it always did when he was marked anew, he was instead taking each breath as it came.

He just wasn't sure what each one would bring.

Whether it would be a stabbing pain in his stomach like when he saw Porthos, or the usual prodding ache when he had seen the others, Aramis didn't know, but each carefully inhaled breath punched out of him with— with—

Disappointment.

In a way, he missed the pain, the torment, because at least that meant that the mark was real, that he was starting something new, a journey, an adventure, a _relationship._

But that was the problem, there would be no relationship with Athos, he would never mark that scarred, delicate wrist. Instead, all they were to remain was friends, a friendship where one of them savoured the other's laughter, the chiding glances, the lowered timbre of a gentle warning.

"Aramis…"

Aramis blinked out of his stupor to find that he had drifted closer to Athos' side quite by instinct, letting Athos do all the work whilst he strode, mindlessly on, besides him.

A quick glance showed Athos' lips curled at one edge, and the teasing tut that left them had Aramis ducking his head with an embarrassed, heated smile.

It was almost as if Athos was flirting with him, but he knew it not to be true, Athos didn't flirt, didn't believe in it, and Aramis knew that he often ascribed emotions to situations that didn't warrant it.

Porthos had called him a romantic.

They had this skewed friendship too, and the almost-flirting that near drove Aramis to tears, but then Porthos was friendly with everyone, Aramis did not feel as if he received any special attention, but from Athos?

Athos looked at him as if he surprised him, and that surprise was a smile, a scoff, a raised eyebrow and a soft reprimand, his name in amused tones and eyes that glowed.

Athos' attention was _his_ , and his alone.

It was selfish to think it, he knew that, but there was something quite blissfully ignorant about living life without marked wrists and telling signs of love – or intent.

Athos would never know his feelings, would never _want_ to know, but Aramis was well-used to praising the ground someone walked on whilst feeling very trodden on.

And yet, Athos would never know anyone's feelings, he would never bear a mark, and so Aramis felt he was a little bit allowed to hold _some_ claim over Athos' time.

Claim the love that Athos had lost, even if it was never actually given to him.

It started to hurt.

And as Aramis always did when he felt as if there were more bootprints in his skin than tallymarks, he conjured a flirtatious smile and called to the woman tending the closest stall.

"Why, what _excellent_ produce you have on offer."

Athos snorted quite inelegantly at his side, and despite the bitter shade of green that bloomed behind his eyes at the lack of Athos' interruption, Aramis forged on.

Until Athos leaned heavily into his side.

Aramis blinked in shock, his blatant come-on dying on his tongue as he felt seared by the warmth captured in Athos' leather jacket. Aramis forced himself to look up, only to see Athos giving his _implacable_ stare to a man glaring at them.

The husband.

Aramis inclined his head and was shepherded by Athos' shoulder in the opposite direction they had come, peering over his shoulder and scowling at Athos' amusement.

"Are you so starved for contact, Aramis?"

"What?" It was a blurt, a splutter, an outward denial and an inward agreement, one that secretly said, _yes, yours._

"Twice today I have rendered you incapable of speech simply by touching you."

Aramis could only be grateful for Athos' inexperience with love at this very moment, but still his mouth opened twice before he could manage, "Perhaps it's more that _you_ aren't one for a tactile nature, so it catches me off-guard."

Athos sobered slightly. "I have never found it easy to relax around people. Until you, of course."

Aramis struggled not to beam at that matter-of-fact addition. "You would be surprised to know how many people say that." Athos gave him a dubious look and Aramis gave in to the grin. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't be surprised."

"I would not; in fact, I _am_ surprised you aren't getting your fill of contact considering how, ah, easy people find it to relax around you."

"Quality, not quantity," Aramis snorted, hand brushing his wrist to emphasise the irony of the situation.

"Very well said," Athos agreed dryly. "Although I don't propose to call myself quality."

Aramis struggled not to jerk at that, not to reflexively thumb the tender new mark in the crook of his elbow. It was harder to reach, and he wondered whether he was supposed to ascertain some sort of meaning from that.

Of course, his first mark had been scarred by his last.

It was quite significant, really.

Aramis stole a glance to his side to see Athos' stride matching his own, his face in profile as he scanned the crowds, jaw stubborn and nose patrician, and Aramis disagreed. Athos was of beautiful quality. "Well, I would."

Athos gave him an amused look, but only tilted his head and murmured, "I'll bow to better judgement."

"Very well said," Aramis quoted, and it earned him a soft chide that had him grinning far wider than a boring patrol of the streets should warrant.

But it was with Athos, and that made anything infinitely better.

His hand returned to the bend of his arm many times throughout the day, idly at times, thoughtlessly at others when Athos was muttering about mountebank merchants on bridges and Aramis couldn't stop laughing, and he touched it determinedly when he lost Athos in an agitated crowd and started to panic.

Aramis found him cornering one of said merchants and handing back the wrongfully won purse to a shrieking woman.

There was something about the sneer at Athos' lips that spread fire from that red mark all the way through Aramis' body, a fire that lasted until they finally stepped into the yard again with grateful sighs.

Treville's censuring frown welcomed them. "I see you managed to make it _back_ in time. I trust I can expect punctuality from now on?"

"As a clock," Aramis replied with a straightening of his shoulders, pressing them ever so slightly against Athos'.

Treville almost smiled. "Tired?"

"Exhausted," Aramis whined, all attempts at good posture dropping away.

"Good." Treville definitely smiled now, and then dismissed them with a nod, leaving Aramis to sag quite cleverly into Athos' side.

"I think this calls for some wine, will you join me?"

Aramis hesitated, torn between wanting to spend as much time with Athos as possible, and wanting to curl up in his bed and try to figure out what was going through his head.

"I won't be offended if you want to sleep, Aramis," Athos murmured, and Aramis chose to find it affectionate, _indulgent._

Aramis reluctantly pulled himself upright, meeting Athos' amused eyes with his own tired ones. "Do not converse with the stars too long, Athos."

A surprised smile curved Athos' lips. "Is that your way of saying I shouldn't drink?"

"Only to save some for me," Aramis teased with a wink, and wanted to roll in the sound of Athos' laugh, high and startled and _happy._

Painless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistelle is a fortified wine, fortified with what? Alcohol. It's Athos' dream.
> 
> Just to give you a little tease, I'm writing the next chapter and it's _hurting_ me.


	5. Premier Cru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I teased tears and tantrums last week, so be prepared.

> And could Oblivion set my soul  
>  From all her troubled visions free,  
>  I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl  
>  That drown'd a single thought of thee.
> 
> \- Lord Byron, _'If Sometimes in the Haunts of Men'_

Aramis swept his front door open with a smile.

One that immediately fell when there was no one waiting for him on the other side.

Aramis forced himself to scoff derisively at his own disappointment, at his own foolishness. Of course Athos wasn't there, Athos didn't even consider him a best friend, let alone a lover.

The word hurt.

Aramis pushed his hair back with a brusque exhale, shaking his head in annoyance. It was okay, everything would be okay as soon as he saw Athos, it didn't matter that Athos wasn't seeking him out, all that mattered was seeing him.

Besides, Athos had sought him out yesterday, it was only fair to return the favour.

Aramis scraped some coin together to buy two apples as he headed for the garrison, and bit into the crisp skin just as the archway came into view.

It turned into ash in his mouth when Athos wasn't there.

Why wasn't he there? It was as if their friendship – _friendship,_ just that, only that – was going in reverse, as if now that Aramis had had his revelation, Athos had gone, forever.

Aramis dug a thumb into the crease of his elbow, morbidly relieved to feel the hot sting of Athos' mark bite back, even if it did mean it was still red and unreturned.

Life was cruel, and love was worse.

"I thought Athos was going to be a good influence on you."

At the grumpy tone of Treville's voice, Aramis looked up in surprise. "What?"

The Captain was at one of the tables, daring the heavy skies to release their burden as he flicked through a few papers in the open air. It was that which was distracting Treville's attention as he answered, "Aside from yesterday, you have been on time every day since Athos has arrived."

Aramis winced a little guiltily, both for causing their Captain trouble, and because the only reason he had been on time was because he had wanted to see Athos.

Treville didn't notice his shame, however, and continued, "With Porthos, I never knew which of you was holding the other back."

Aramis had to turn his pained gasp into a cough, wondering why he was so shocked that Treville had known them so well, had watched them so closely. "Holding back?"

Treville hummed in agreement, licking a thumb as he turned a page. "I think this has been good for you. You never could do things without the other."

"Was that so wrong?"

Treville finally gave him his full attention, and that frown was far too probing. "You may be a man grown, Aramis, but there is always room to grow a little more."

Aramis laughed nervously at that sage statement, especially when he had merely exchanged one vice for another and not grown at all. "You say that as if Porthos stunted me."

The silence stretched a little too long before Treville shifted his jaw to the side and sighed. "In those first few weeks of your recruitment, I thought I was taking on more trouble than you were worth."

Aramis was forced to try and joke lest he show how much it hurt to remember those first few blissful weeks with Porthos, of patrols filled with laughter and spending more time talking than guarding. "That's a bit harsh, no?"

"But true," Treville insisted with a shrug. "If I wasn't hearing about Porthos' scraps in every tavern along the Seine, it was your conquests in the buildings in between."

Aramis was actually affronted by that, distracted from his aching heart to complain adamantly, "Porthos had conquests!"

"Yes, and _you_ had scraps – at least Porthos' were with his fists."

"Gentlemen spar with blades," Aramis announced grandly, trying to look as if Treville wasn't tearing his life apart with each painfully accurate observation.

"Gentlemen should know it's illegal, too." Treville's face found his hands, his laugh tired and muffled before he emerged again. "Do you know I've not heard your name once since Porthos left?"

"Since Athos arrived," Aramis added quietly, and Treville weighed his head to the side in acknowledgement.

It was true, there had been no need to rouse trouble or raise skirts without Porthos around, and even though he was once again flirting with a love unrequited, Aramis still didn't feel the urge to go looking for mischief.

It was that same feeling he had realised yesterday, the contentment of having some sort of _claim_ to Athos' time, that Athos allowed him it.

 _Had_ allowed him it, because he wasn't here today.

At last, that familiar longing started to grow in his chest, the one that would have had him crawling into welcoming arms – if they had welcomed him. Porthos would have given him a hug if he had asked, but Athos was just about used to Aramis leaning on him.

Funnily enough, it was all he wanted right now.

A messenger wearing palace uniform trotted through the archway, and Aramis was fairly certain he could have keeled over and Treville wouldn't have noticed.

Instead, Aramis curiously watched Treville offer gruff gratitude to the courier as he snatched the letter and tore it open.

Treville read it feverishly, glancing at the sun's position in the sky before a wry smile pulled at his mouth. It was forcibly wiped away when he turned to Aramis, but there was an excitable tension to his body still. "Yes, ah, as you were."

"You… haven't given me a task, _Capitaine._ "

Treville blinked at him, gaze slipping to the letter occasionally. "Did I not? Well, I was supposed to be doing the recruits' target training, so—"

Aramis groaned plaintively, "Sir?"

"It's an honour, Aramis," Treville lied through his teeth, and when he saw that Aramis hadn't fallen for it, grinned widely. "I have an appointment at the palace, royalty doesn't wait."

No, they did not, but it wasn't a royal ribbon dripping from that otherwise unassuming parchment, it was the papacy.

Aramis painted his most innocent face on. "You must come when called."

Treville's humour drifted away, and he peered closely at Aramis before grunting. "Indeed. Well, can I trust you will have things under control?"

"Of course, _mon capitaine,_ " Aramis assured, and waited until Treville was a good minute away before calling to one of his newly promoted brothers and assigning him a new task for the day. "It's an honour, man, good luck."

The good-natured grumble followed him out of the garrison as he clapped his hands together and went in search of the man who had changed him for the better these last few weeks.

Aramis wasn't quite sure whenhehad changed. He had thought it was when he had noticed his mark, but he was starting to think it was before then, starting to think it was that first time Athos had smiled at him.

It seemed like an age ago, yet Aramis could still picture it in his mind's eye; Athos on a backdrop of bright sky and eyes that gleamed with it. Athos had said himself that he found Aramis easier to relax around, they had talked, _shared_.

So why hadn't the mark changed? Athos smiled at him all the time, even if it was just that hidden one in the crinkles of his cheeks, the one just for Aramis, but it was still only a smile.

Aramis wanted the man.

And yet that same desire to share his happiness was exactly what would keep him from seducing Athos, because the thought of scaring him off was more horrible than only ever having him as a friend.

Still, that didn't mean he wouldn't take every opportunity to seek him out, even if all it earned him was one of Athos' reprimanding looks for bothering him.

Aramis would take what he could get.

It was a bit odd that Athos hadn't shown up on a day they were expected, Athos treated loyalty as something worth fighting to the death for, so for him to be absent was concerning.

Aramis knew where Athos lived after he had pointed it out on their street patrol, but he had yet to be inside – to be _invited_ inside.

When he reached the locked door in the upstairs hallway, he realised that he wasn't going to be invited inside again. Even when he knocked, nobody answered, but where else could Athos be?

Aramis made a considering noise as he regarded the lock typical of a newly rented room. Athos hadn't updated it yet, which meant that it might just be the right tumblers for…

Aramis silently congratulated himself when the lock clicked open, and made a mental note to thank Porthos for gifting him a spare set of picks.

Before his heart could hurt, he pushed the door open and frowned at the faint sound of multiple clinks as he did so.

And his name on a whispered breath.

Aramis squeezed through the doorway, and winced at a sharp pain on his arm when he must have caught it on the wood.

It was dingy in the unlit room, and it took a moment for him to focus on the huddled mess still in yesterday's clothes against the bed, and a moment longer to meet the shocked eyes that seemed riveted to him.

Aramis gave a short high-pitched hum, and then he picked his way through the bottles to settle on the floor at Athos' side, touching all the way from their shoulders to their bent knees, and Aramis could finally breathe easily. " _On_ the bed would have been more comfortable, you know."

Athos stiffened, fingers clenching around the glass still in his hand and looking at it as if it had betrayed him. "What are you doing?"

"Well, you aren't fit for duty today, and I'm not going without you."

If it was possible, Athos stiffened further. "I could sober up if I wished to."

Aramis simply tipped his head onto Athos' shoulder even as he wrinkled his nose at the smell of wine and unwashed. It didn't matter, this was where he wanted to be.

Athos' breaths came raggedly at first, but even when they evened out, his voice was hoarse. "Why wouldn't you go without me?"

"Would you like an alphabetised list?"

Aramis didn't need to peek up to see the automatic chiding look, but he did anyway, and so he caught the moment it melted into confusion. "One reason would do."

It clutched at Aramis' heart that Athos thought he was anything less than wonderful, and so he hitched his shoulder more firmly into Athos' and sighed contentedly.

Hungover or not, he was quite comfortable here.

"Well, it's midweek, and Treville is always rather more irritable – or should that be _frustrated –_ midweek; it always seems to coincide with those royal dinners with religious dignitaries that he's not invited to anymore," Aramis trailed off, and when he felt Athos twist to look at him, cleared his throat. "Where was I? Oh, yes, and undoubtedly I will end up paired with some fresh-faced recruit."

"Do I not count as one of those anymore?"

"You were not fresh-faced when you arrived, Athos," Aramis teased, and suffered a slight nudge of elbow into his ribs. "A dunk in the bucket does not apply."

"Please, go on with this list of apparently unrelated things," Athos said dryly, but Aramis could hear the faint tinge of amusement in it and had to smile.

"There is a common factor, actually, it's you."

The amusement disappeared to be replaced with something hollow and hesitant. "Me?"

"Yes, I would be bored without you," Aramis said matter-of-factly, and when only silence answered him, added, "So instead I will entertain you."

"Perhaps I am feeling well enough for duty."

Aramis elbowed Athos this time, and shocked a tired laugh out of him.

"If you are well enough to sass me then you are well enough for my company," Aramis chided happily, and their role reversal had Athos raising an eyebrow.

"I do feel a little sick, now that you mention it."

"Then I will care for you." Aramis twisted to rest his cheek on Athos' shoulder and peered up at him. "What can I fetch?"

Athos didn't move under Aramis' weight, used to it by now, but he still seemed perturbed by something, still on the defensive. "More wine?"

Aramis tutted under his breath and hauled himself to his feet. "Something more substantial, perhaps."

When he turned around, it was to see Athos frowning at him, looking a pitiful picture. "Why?"

Aramis knew the question for what it was, and stooped slightly to hook his finger and thumb around Athos' scruffy jaw for a few seconds, discarding a few hundred responses linked to the happy thump of his heart before settling with a concise, "Because I want to."

_Because I need to._

Surprise flashed across Athos' face, and with it came something startling, as if Aramis had said something telling, something that made his intentions clear.

_Intent._

Aramis swallowed nervously and fled, fled from the man who believed that marks were false and intentions true.

He had never planned on Athos ever knowing, hadn't thought that Athos _could_ know, because to know meant Athos had thought about it, thought about the two of them, of marks and wrists and intentions.

He must not know, Athos had said himself that he had picked himself up and moved on, that love was not worth it, and he had said that he was happy for their friendship.

That was it, their friendship, that was the thing surprising Athos, because Aramis was valuing it so highly and Athos was still unused to it, that was all.

Aramis would just tell Athos that he did the same for Porthos when he was sick too, he just wouldn't tell him what the similarities were.

Aramis anxiously thumbed his elbow and didn't wince for once.

Food, he had to find food for Athos.

Aramis stepped back into the streets with a deep breath, clearing the scent of alcohol and Athos from his nose – and mildly regretting so even as he did it. There was a bakery not far away, bread would soak up the wine, and maybe something sweet, just to see Athos turn his nose up at it and offer it to him instead.

A smile caught at his mouth, and then a woman caught his eye, and Aramis quite automatically offered to help her lift the heavy box of fruit onto her stall.

"Allow me, _madame,_ " he offered, and rolled his sleeves up before his fingers curled around the wood, the cloth around his wrist catching uncomfortably on a splinter.

" _Merci, monsieur,_ " she simpered, but Aramis just gave her a distracted smile as he scratched at his arm, at an itchiness beneath the skin.

The bandages had loosened; Athos was going to kill him. Aramis swore silently as he dragged his nails down his forearm, and then he froze at the marks he had revealed, at one particular mark that had changed.

Aramis ran.

 

* * *

 

Aramis tore through the streets, the linen unravelling as he did so, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, to scream at the skies or dig into the dirt and die there and then.

He was barely inside the front door when he yelled, "Athos, it's black, it turned black."

There was a pained noise over the thump of his feet on the stairs, and then a strained, "I told you not to open the bandages, it won't have healed yet."

Aramis skidded into the room to see Athos upright, his fingers clenching so tight around a fresh wine bottle that the glass threatened to crack.

His expression so miserable that Aramis' heart threatened to as well.

It was obvious, Athos had been right. The marks didn't show intentions, because Athos was clearly intent on ignoring love, on ignoring _him._

Aramis had based his life on those marks, depended on them to tell him where he stood, and now they were lying to him. It hurt so much more than Aramis thought that it would.

There was an intensity to Athos' gaze that Aramis didn't understand, but he lost it to the torn bandages now straggling about his fingers, and something about Athos _changed._

It wasn't just the way his breathing shuddered, or the way he his eyes fluttered shut, it was the slump in his perfect posture.

As if something had finally broken him.

Athos took a deep gulp of his wine, his lack of grimace saying how often he had done that in the last few hours, and then those bright sky eyes opened again, looking heavy with rainclouds, just as his voice was heavy with regret.

"I'm glad he came to his senses, Aramis."

Aramis had taken a breath in preparation of bolting, but it abruptly changed into a desperate, "Who?"

Athos' attention snapped to his unbound wrist, and he took an unsteady step closer even as Aramis' thumb returned to the warm nook of his inner elbow. "I thought— Who?"

Aramis choked out a laugh, full of nervous anticipation and such visceral fear. "I hoped you would know."

Athos' eyes widened a fraction until he looked vaguely hunted, but there was an awful glimmer of hope there, the hope of a man who had lost so much and thought he had found something again, not just intentions but love as well, and Athos' hand went to his sleeve.

_Yes._

Aramis lunged, his own hands grasping for Athos' left, but Athos stepped back, stepped away from him, hiding his arms behind him. "No, Aramis, you'll be disappointed, you know I can't—"

Aramis couldn't help the whine stuck in his throat, unsure what to feel when Athos wouldn't let him see, wouldn't let himself _love,_ when Aramis loved him so much that it hurt – _this_ was the pain he had been feeling, not of a love unrequited, but love _re_ quited, love returned.

It had to be.

Aramis was adamant, he had to see, had to see if it was the same jet black shade as his, darker than all his others. Athos _must_ feel it too.

Athos twisted his wrist away and threw the wine bottle aside, taking Aramis' face in his hands and forcing him to look at him, fingers warm and quivering. "You don't need to see it."

Aramis' lip trembled as his eyes began to sting. "What if the line's not you, what if I was confused? I have so many, how do I know—"

"Because I do love you, Aramis."

Aramis' breath punched out of him, and he wanted to hear that firm, fearful statement over and over again so desperately that he shook, shivered in the scarred arms of a man who stared worriedly into his eyes.

"You do?"

Athos nodded, small at first but slowly more determined when Aramis gave a wobbly smile. "I didn't think I could. I kept telling myself that I shouldn't, especially after you told me about Porthos," Athos trailed off at Porthos' name, and some of that beautiful hope died.

"No, no, no," Aramis crooned, his own fingers slipping to Athos' wrists and holding his hands against his cheeks, taking the turn of the confident one, needing to return such selfless honesty with a truth he felt in his bones. "He might be my first line, but you're my last, Athos."

It was Athos' turn to exhale sharply, his forehead smoothing out and a shining glimmer of a smile at his lips. It winked out when Aramis leaned forwards with the joyful intention of kissing it.

"No," Athos murmured, trying to move his hands away but only succeeding an inch when Aramis refused to let him go. "Aramis, no."

Aramis' grip faltered, and with it, Athos' arms dropped as if lifeless and Aramis' stunned fingers slipped away.

Athos looked at him for a long, fraught moment, and something long-learned reared its head. "It shouldn't be me."

Aramis gasped as if shot, once in the heart and once in the arm, and tried to reach for Athos again but once more he stepped back. "Why are you doing this, Athos?"

"Because I don't _deserve_ happiness, I don't deserve _you_ ," Athos said hoarsely.

"And somebody else does?" Aramis shouted, outraged not at Athos' rejection, but at his reasons _._ "Athos, you deserve _every_ happiness, you're a wonderful Musketeer, you put up with me, you're _loyal—_ "

"I am not loyal, I have proven that before," Athos interrupted bitterly.

"You _are_ loyal, you've been loyal to the regiment," Aramis insisted, and when Athos closed his eyes to scoff, Aramis laced their fingers together and squeezed. "You've been loyal to me."

Athos' head shook so very slightly, but it was determined instead of denial. "You were my friend."

"And _my friend_ said that it was insane to turn down such a gift," Aramis reminded, and Athos looked as if he had just been chased into a corner – in a way, he had, because the wall was at his back and Aramis would only have to take a single step to push against his front.

"I wasn't talking about me."

"That's because you're a smart man and you _won't_ turn it down," Aramis told him, and said it firmly enough that Athos automatically gave him a look. "See? You're smart, you're… You're immune to my charms."

Aramis nearly deflated as he realised the potential truth behind those words, but Athos just rolled his eyes and muttered, "I am definitely _not_ immune."

Aramis perked up, tremulous smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "I thought I was deplorable?"

"You are," Athos replied with a laugh too exhausted to be termed one. "A deplorable show-off but an excellent shot."

"So it's okay?"

Athos arched an eyebrow at Aramis' hopeful tone, but he couldn't hide the faint curve of his smile. "It's tolerable."

Aramis didn't bother hiding his. "Tolerate me, then, Athos."

Athos' brows raised in disbelief. "Tolerate _you?_ I'm the one that needs tolerating, Aramis, your only fault is your insatiable persistence - and I can only fault you for that because it's working against me," Athos explained with reluctant amusement, but it faded when Aramis took the opportunity to step closer.

"If I'm so faultless, why are we still talking?" Aramis asked with a pout, and Athos' gaze roved his face as if trying to remember it whilst it was still this close, as if he was planning to let go.

"Because _I'm_ the one at fault. Look at me, Aramis, I'm hungover – I think I'm still drunk."

"So?"

"I drank because I knew—" Athos exhaled gustily and tried again. "Because I knew I wasn't just _tolerating_ you anymore."

Aramis glared at him for trying to drink away something beautiful. "Why would you do something like that?"

"You're my only friend, Aramis, I didn't want to ruin that, ruin _you._ "

"I'm very capable of deciding who I want to be ruined by, thank you," Aramis answered primly, and then dropped the act to pull on Athos' hand and bring him stumbling closer. "Did you ever think that I might want to ruin you, too?"

Athos flushed, his stammer adorable. "That's not what I meant."

Aramis knew that, and he knew that Athos thought what he was doing was right.

But Athos _was right._ He was right for him.

Aramis raised his other hand, deliberately ignoring Athos' squeezing in on itself, and rested his fingers over Athos' heart with a smile.

"I'm a mess," Athos declared despairingly.

"So am I," Aramis replied sunnily.

"My _life_ is a mess, I can't drag you into it," Athos insisted, and his free hand came up to lay over the one on his heart. "I won't."

"You're forgetting something very important, Athos de la Fère," Aramis murmured, his nose almost against Athos'. "I loved you first."

Athos' mouth parted slightly in surprise at hearing that one word, eyes wide and cheeks pink and breathtakingly beautiful.

"I can't," Athos said with the whisper of a man damned. "I can't be this lucky."

Aramis squeezed the fingers twined with his and beamed at the same wondering look that he had seen as Athos bandaged his wrist, when Athos had said he was generous.

"We'll see if you still think that in a few years."

It seemed to hit Athos all over again, the prospect that this was happening, the possibility of something _more,_ but rather than shutting down on him again, Athos took a short, steady breath and said in that same reverent tone, "I thought it when I met you, and I will think it forever."

Aramis' smile started to hurt his cheeks, but it was a sweet pain, a worthy one, because despite being the one who pursued this, who insisted upon _them_ , Aramis still found himself giddy that Athos was accepting it.

Accepting him.

"Why did your mark change?"

Athos frowned for a moment, and Aramis almost laughed when he realised why. "I worked on hiding my feelings for so long and an infernal mark gave me away?"

"It's been red for a while," Aramis reminded, and thought that shy, surprised smile might be his favourite thing in the world.

"I have no idea why," Athos murmured, his thumb moving ever-so-slightly over Aramis' as if he was remembering how to touch as well as how to smile, _how to love_. "I wasn't exactly forthcoming."

"You were you, Athos, and that's who I fell in love with."

Athos actually flushed, and tried to combat it by giving him a look. "You broke into my house."

It was supposed to be a reprimand, but Aramis could almost taste Athos' smile, could remember the sharp pain on his arm when he opened the door.

Remembered it in another time, in another place, when someone else had broken into his.

Athos was looking at the floor and missed the sudden change in Aramis' expression, a memory that felt incredibly old as he was making new ones with someone else.

"I was at my worst, trying not to think about you, telling myself that I was a fool for doing so, for wanting to be near you, to enjoy making you smile," Athos admitted, glancing at him in embarrassment. "I have a lot of practice at convincing myself, and it was easy when you weren't there."

"And then I broke in," Aramis said quietly, and Athos nodded, squeezing the hand Aramis had laid over his heart.

"In more ways than one."

Aramis could still remember the faint scratch of lockpicks and the rumbling heat of volcanoes, but blue eyes he had once termed cold were so very close to his, and they were warm and wonderful.

 _First lines and lasts_ , and his last had cut through his first.

"I'm sorry I can't give you what you wanted," Athos said quietly, guilt in the tightening of his grip, and Aramis forgot everything in order to reassure the man who had bared his heart just for him.

Athos was here, Athos loved him, and that was all that mattered.

"What are you talking about?"

"A mark," Athos answered haltingly, "on my wrist."

Aramis hesitated, choosing his words carefully even as he inwardly flinched. All his life he had yearned for his own black mark on Porthos' wrist.

To know he was wanted, to _see_ it, _his_ mark and nobody else's.

Now he wouldn't even get one on Athos'.

"You'll just have to remind me of your intentions, won't you?" Aramis offered, and although his smile was forcibly strong, Athos still brought his knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss that spoke of _worship_ there, bright-eyed gaze locked with Aramis'.

"Every day."

It was more than a promise, it was an oath; a spoken word, because marked ones were no longer enough, and life was no longer simple.

 

* * *

 

"Does your face hurt?"

Athos looked down in surprise, shocked out of his musings by Aramis' voice over the noise spilling through the window from the tavern below.

They had been at Aramis' lodgings since nightfall, Athos having been bullied into bed to sleep off his restless night, waking only to find Aramis poking about his things with an odd look on his face before dragging him out onto the street for some food.

It had been too noisy to talk, and too full of eyes to do anything but pick at their food until Aramis deemed their appetites satisfied.

Athos had been twitchy as they left, too awake and itchy in his own skin, hand going to and from his gun, left arm over right hip, again and again.

It didn't take long to realise that Aramis was practically dead on his feet, and Athos had paused to wonder why he hadn't slept whilst he had.

Athos had ushered him upstairs to his rooms, but Aramis had thrown open a window, declared it stifling, and slowly sank down the wall.

It _did_ take too long to realise that Aramis was blinking owlishly at him because he wanted something, and Athos had shifted his weight from foot-to-foot as he desperately tried to figure it out.

He had to learn, had to learn Aramis' language until it was second-nature to him, but it was still so many stunning smiles and muddling closeness, his heart in his throat when Aramis neared, when he spoke, when he smiled.

He didn't know how to do this, and it killed him.

"Sit with me," Aramis had asked drowsily, and Athos had blinked at the simple request.

Athos had slowly sat on the floor beside him and tried not to breathe when Aramis arranged them both, ending up with their legs side-by-side and Aramis half in his lap, back against Athos' chest and feeling like bliss.

_How could he be this lucky?_

Aramis twisted slightly in Athos' arms, tangling their legs so that he could nudge Athos' jaw with his nose. "I asked you a question."

Athos was too busy being stunned all over again by having Aramis so close, those handsome eyes looking up at him and his warm weight a negligible, precious thing. "Hm, my face?"

"Yes," Aramis drawled, slightly more awake after his nap to the tune of Athos' heartbeat _._ "You've been smiling since you sat down."

"No I haven't," Athos said immediately, wiping his expression clear. The wood was hard and the wall was cold and he was getting a cramp in the thigh Aramis was leaning on, but he didn't care, _couldn't_ care, because of Aramis.

Because he had a black line all his own and he never thought he would have one again.

He wanted to see it, to touch it, to kiss it, but doing so felt like an insult when he couldn't offer one of his own. It made him feel inferior, until Aramis touched him with those slender fingers and brought him stumbling into the present again, into acceptance.

Aramis' smile pressed against Athos' cheek, somewhere between a caress and a kiss, and Athos prepared to wake up for the fiftieth time today.

But his dreams had never been this good.

Until Aramis crawled off of him.

Panic immediately sprung at Athos' spine, and he cursed himself for being foolish or needy or whatever it was that he had done to drive Aramis away.

Aramis dragged himself to his feet, hand wiping messily at his hair as he yawned, and Athos wasn't sure whether he should ask him what he was doing or simply tell him how enchanting he looked.

He settled for neither, and then cursed his quietness.

Aramis snagged a pillow off of his bed and padded back over to him, manhandling Athos' shoulders forwards until he could slip the pillow behind them.

Athos was still staring when he settled right back into his previous place again as if he owned it and said muzzily, "Didn't want you to be uncomfortable."

Athos adored him.

It settled like a fact in his chest, something pretty and persistent - like Aramis - and so Athos gave up fighting, gave up disbelieving, gave up the stoic pretence and shifted position, bending one knee to better prop them both up.

That he was able to do so felt like the greatest gift there was, but then that was Aramis in his entirety.

As if aware of Athos' thoughts, Aramis linked their left hands together, pulling himself tighter against Athos' chest. It took Athos another moment to relax, but when he did it was with a sigh that echoed Aramis' own contentment.

Aramis had been so worried that Athos would run, so worried that he would be without him, that someone else would _leave._ He hadn't slept in favour of watching him, listening to him, wanting to get into bed with him.

But this was Athos, and this was new, and it was important, so very important that Aramis thought he would die if he didn't hear every single one of those slow, slightly unsteady breaths.

The intensity of his thoughts alarmed him, but then Athos would take a breath and everything seemed normal again, seemed simple. Simple was being in Athos' arms and thanking God for it, for his final mark.

_How could he be this lucky?_

Aramis lifted the fingers twined with his and kissed a pale fingertip, kissing another when he felt a smile against his neck, kissing down his palm until he had Athos' arm raised in front of him.

" _Dios mío,_ " whispered from Aramis' mouth, and he felt Athos ask a sleepy question, felt him shift his weight so he could see, and then he froze.

Athos' sleeve had fallen down, and striking through those faded, horizontal scars was one jet black line, skewed in the middle by a tangle of silver threads.

Aramis hesitantly touched a finger to it, and gave a breathless laugh when it seemed warm to the touch. "It's mine?"

Athos' right hand closed over his, both their fingers touching that impossible mark, and then Athos squeezed, his nose burying into Aramis' neck, his smile open-mouthed against tan skin. "Yours."

It didn't feel as if Athos was just talking about the line.

Aramis stared at that ruined wrist and thought it art, thought it a tapestry of tales, and realised they were all told right there, because his mark was a little to the right of where the first would have been.

"Her mark," Aramis murmured, and Athos flinched involuntarily. "Her mark didn't leave because you cut it away, Athos, it _faded._ "

Athos peered again, his tension dissipating as he looked at the space Aramis couldn't bring himself to touch, resolution coming in the form of new intentions and old truths.

"I don't understand the bloody things," Athos growled, feeling grumpy and rather within his rights to be so when his life's theories were being unravelled by the perfect man in his arms.

"Nobody does, Athos," Aramis replied, his voice pitched low and soothing, his smile a painfully happy thing as he looked at a line that belonged to him. "I like them though."

It was silent for a few moments before Athos replied ever so quietly, "So do I."

Aramis turned delightedly until he could nuzzle under Athos' chin and simply _be,_ be held, be protected, be loved; by Athos, the wasp to his butterfly.

Athos felt Aramis drift off, heard the happy little murmurs he made as he slept, and struggled to contain the wet heat at the back of his throat even as he tried not to laugh in complete disbelief.

All this time of torturing himself, of feeling he deserved the awful pain, and all just because he hadn't picked himself up and moved on.

Now, at last, he had, and the proof was right there, in his arms and on them, in the scarred wrist that Aramis still had his thumb on, the black line just peeking out enough to make Athos laugh softly into Aramis' curls.

So simple, and so very sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, it was happy tears! The reveal at last - were you worried I'd break them? Imagine if Athos hadn't be so ridiculously in love with Aramis that he had managed to deny him and I spent the next three chapters writing Aramis' broken heart. Imagine it.
> 
> There's still time, of course, we haven't even got to the proper whump.


	6. Triage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, it's been a while, I know. Life took a turn and the boys went quiet for a bit, but they're back, back and ready for action - complete with a desperate grasping for vaguely appropriate titles! French wine-making terms because why not.  
>  All my thanks to [misanthropiclycanthrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope) for helping with this chapter; I'll pay you back in drinks and pictures with cute guys.

> I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion—  
> I have shuddered at it,  
> I shudder no more.  
> I could be martyred for my religion.  
> Love is my religion  
> I could die for that.  
> I could die for you.  
> My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.  
> ― John Keats

Aramis struggled through dreams as though he had slept for an age, and yet he found himself curled up on the hard wood floor, a blanket about his shoulders and a pillow held tightly in his arms.

It wasn't what was he was supposed to be holding.

Aramis scrambled to his feet, panic thrumming through his veins even as he tried to blink sleep out of his eyes, his hand catching awkwardly on the windowsill as he stood and he yelped at the sting.

It didn't matter, the pain didn't matter, because he was already suffering through a whirlwind of pain as he desperately looked around the room, but the answer was obvious, it was obvious from the moment he had woken up with only feathers for company.

Athos had gone.

Aramis slumped against the wall, head tipping backwards with a crack as he dragged a hand harshly down his face.

Of course Athos had gone, they always left, they _always_ left, it was a truth ingrained in his skin – literally, because there, just above the crease of Aramis' elbow, was Athos' mark. The twin of the one on Athos' wrist, and that one was _his._

Aramis wanted to cry.

Why did they always leave, what was so wrong with him?

A wet sort of heat threatened to envelop his throat, and his shuddering breath almost overshadowed a quiet knock at the door, almost too quiet to hear, but Aramis ran to it, a fervent sort of hope in his wide eyes.

Athos' guilty expression threw him for a moment, and then Aramis was too confused to throw himself at Athos as he had wanted to.

Athos shifted his weight almost nervously and murmured, "I didn't want to wake you."

Aramis frowned, eyes squeezing shut with hazy memory, half convinced that yesterday had been nothing but a dream. "Did… didn't we sleep here last night?"

If they hadn't, if this had all been some convoluted scheme of his brain and he and Athos were simply friends, he was tempted to just admit everything to Athos anyway.

But Aramis hoped, and his hope was good.

A faint pink spread over Athos' cheeks, his usually cool gaze turning embarrassed as he looked at anything except Aramis. "Yes, I mean, just then, with my knock. I went to get breakfast."

Athos held up a bag, meeting Aramis' eyes for a scant second, but something in Aramis' face must have alarmed him, because he looked back with a frown, concern overriding his nerves. "What is it?"

Aramis' fingers trembled around the door handle, his smile a pitiful thing. "I thought you had gone."

Athos' expression softened immediately, his own smile not much better. "I could barely tear myself away – you didn't want me to."

Aramis winced even as he laughed. "Please, I can barely take responsibility for my actions whilst awake, don't charge me with what I do when I sleep, too."

"I haven't been called _comfortable_ before," Athos replied, one edge of his mouth quirking up when Aramis groaned. "I took it as a compliment."

"Good," Aramis mumbled, peeking up just to see the amusement in Athos' eyes, continuing to look when Athos had to duck his head to break the connection. "If you're going to be bringing me breakfast more often—"

"That is hardly what I meant," Athos interrupted dryly, but Aramis carried on regardless.

"—You'll need a key."

Athos almost stepped back in surprise, nonchalance slamming down on its heels. "I'm not sure that would be appropriate."

Aramis frowned, head tipping to the side quizzically. "It's not a big issue, Athos—"

"Nevertheless," Athos insisted, some of that stiffness returning to his posture, and so Aramis dropped the subject with nothing more than a pang of memory.

Porthos had never needed a key, he had just broken in, as he had with Aramis' heart.

Athos cleared his throat, loath to push past Aramis but clearly wanting to move on, and so he raised the bag again, along with an eyebrow. "Breakfast?"

Aramis forced a smile, but it turned into a real one when Athos stepped inside his rooms and gestured for Aramis to sit.

"Quite the gentleman, aren't you?" Aramis teased, delighted to see the faint flush that accompanied a wry smile. It felt so very _right_ to see Athos in his rooms, as if he were already part of the furniture – and yet Aramis was biding his time as to when he could climb on it.

"One of us has to be," Athos murmured, taking the opposite chair once Aramis had made himself comfortable and started unwrapping.

There was – to put it lightly – a veritable mélange of foodstuffs, from pastries to cakes, and fruit to bread, until Aramis was eyeing it all with a bit of shock, wondering why on earth Athos thought he needed to buy so much food.

That was until he noticed another package, this one wrapped in far nicer paper, and then he was simply curious.

Athos hadn't moved for a while, and Aramis realised that he was being watched very carefully, and for Athos, that meant he was nervous about something.

Aramis realised what when he unwrapped the most delicate little choux pastry cake, rings of puff and cream twined about one another in a beautifully clever pattern.

"You didn't get this from our normal place," Aramis murmured joyfully, fingers twitching with the urge to get started.

"I may have stopped somewhere else," Athos admitted casually, even though Aramis knew for a fact that nobody near them worked with such exquisite detail, and certainly not for cheap.

Aramis looked at the sweet treat, and then he looked at Athos, and remembered a promise amidst wine bottles and beating hearts.

_You'll have to remind me of your intentions then, won't you?_

_Every day._

Aramis wanted to barrel the secretly sweet man to the floor, but with the foresight of someone who didn't want to accidentally get stabbed, he managed to stay in his chair.

Athos would learn, with time.

Instead, Aramis nudged his knee against Athos' under the table, and revelled in the startled look it earned him.

"Thank you, Athos."

It might very well be his new favourite thing to thank Athos – and in as many ways as possible – because Athos flushed and muttered some sort of dismissal before picking an apple from the table.

Aramis held his hand out for it, and it only took Athos a single narrow eyed glance before he warily handed it over to him.

He was right to be suspicious, because Aramis swiped a bit of icing on it and gave it back, much to Athos' disapproval.

"You have ruined this," Athos remarked, glaring at the offending sugar, so Aramis took it back and licked it off, and Athos quite forgot how to eat for a moment.

Aramis changed his mind, _that_ was his favourite thing to do.

 

* * *

 

"It's a superior knot and there's nothing you can do about it," Aramis announced an hour later, lounging half on his bed as he looked at Athos upside down, Athos who was still sat on his chair but smiling slightly.

"I don't need to do anything about it, it will be proven the next time you use it," Athos replied matter-of-factly, but finally had to tilt his head to the side. "Why _are_ you laying like that?"

Aramis grinned, rolling onto his stomach to feel the blood rush. "I used to do it all the time as a child."

Athos raised a pert eyebrow. "Are you one still?"

Aramis raised himself onto his elbows, ready to be very affronted, but then slumped back against the blankets again. "I will forgive you for that grievous remark, but only because I'm still full of food."

Athos laughed, and the sound of it made Aramis' day, the laugh and the food, and the mark, and just Athos in general.

"I'm hardly surprised; I hadn't intended you to eat all of it."

"Then you shouldn't have bought so much!" Aramis complained half-heartedly, and chose not to tell Athos that he had to eat everything because otherwise Porthos would.

Athos hummed in amusement, arms crossed over his chest. "Next time, I will be sure to bring you a single apple."

"So there will be a next time?"

Athos' instinct was still to flush, but it was coupled with a smirk now, one that widened when Aramis smiled hopefully.

It wasn't as if Athos could talk himself out of anything now, they were both marked, and Aramis loved reminding him of it.

"Perhaps."

"Good, I could become quite used to you bringing me breakfast," Aramis said playfully, a part of him hoping that Athos would never go – even if it was to bring him food.

"I have no doubt of that," Athos murmured, but then he stood and made his way to the door, leaving Aramis staring after him in confusion. "I think I'll take my leave now."

Aramis clambered up, almost tripping on a pillow as he followed Athos across the room like a lost puppy. "What?"

Athos glanced out of the window. "We have muster tomorrow and I need to run a few errands."

"Oh," Aramis managed lamely, unsure what to do when Athos opened his door and stepped out. "Will you come back tonight?"

Athos turned, a crease to his brow. "I don't believe so."

Aramis refrained from stamping a foot, but he couldn't help the quiet question that left his lips.

"Why?"

Athos frowned, clearly as confused as Aramis but for entirely different reasons, and must have felt Aramis' pulse pick up when he lifted his left hand, Athos' pale fingers twined with Aramis' tan, like the pastry and the icing.

Aramis was too busy daring to believe that Athos was _holding his hand_ before a soft kiss was pressed to his knuckles, a flush hidden behind scruffy beard.

"You're making this very difficult," was the dry murmur against his skin, pale blue eyes looking up from under heavy brows.

"I don't understand," he replied quietly, and Athos gave him a surprised, wry look.

"I'm trying to court you, Aramis."

Aramis blinked, thoughts screeching to a halt and the food in his stomach starting to churn. "What?"

Athos gave him a chagrined look. "Please don't make me repeat it."

Aramis' mouth opened twice before he blurted, "You're _courting_ me?"

Athos' embarrassment bled into fear, fear that he had done something wrong, but before the man could run – and the way the muscles in his legs tensed told Aramis that was _exactly_ what he had been planning – Aramis threw his arms around Athos' neck and squeezed.

After a huff of surprise, Athos' palms went to Aramis' waist.

"This isn't usually allowed, you know," Athos muttered, but Aramis could feel the smile against his neck.

Aramis let him go only to hold his hand again, and reached out to hold the other, his thumb brushing over where his line would be under Athos' shirt sleeves. "We already have matching lines, you know?"

"That is beside the point." Athos tried to scowl but smiled instead, and it was far too bashful a smile for a man able to spar as well as he did, for a man who could rival royalty with his haughtiness. "I want to do this properly."

Aramis knew that, Aramis _understood,_ he understood that Athos had never thought he would love again, had never thought to bear another mark, and now that he did, he thought it unbelievable, something to cherish. Athos had said it himself, _how can I be so lucky?_

Athos had the line, but he wanted to _show_ his intent, and Aramis wondered if it was possible to love him any more than he already did.

Aramis grinned delightedly, the pastries in his stomach turning to little choux butterflies. "I've not been courted before."

"Neither have I, I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing," Athos admitted in a grumble, but all it did was make Aramis happier, because Athos was _trying_ , he was trying things he didn't understand and probably didn't like, but he wanted to try, for Aramis.

It suddenly made sense as to why Athos had shut down on him about the key – it wasn't really the done thing to give your suitor a way into your house.

_Suitor._

"Come here." Aramis gestured to the door, to the loose stone he kept his spare key behind. "I'm not giving it to you, so you can't get angry at me."

Athos' mouth twisted uncomfortably, but he still didn't let go of Aramis' hands. "I've never been angry with you."

"Fine, so you can't give me that look then."

Athos gave him it anyway, and snorted when Aramis laughed. "It can't work that well as you continue to be mischievous."

"That's because I like it," Aramis replied, looking at Athos from under his eyelashes, and watched the flush spread across pale cheeks the way fire crosses a forest.

Athos huffed, struggling to deal with Aramis' flirting. "That defeats the whole object."

Aramis bit his lip, letting Athos' hands go when it didn't look as if he was going to run off at any minute – especially when that bright-sky gaze seemed stuck to his mouth.

"I deliberately misbehaved in the beginning just for that look," he admitted, happy to sound a fool when it made Athos laugh in disbelief.

"Am I to assume that nothing has changed?"

Aramis' delighted nod earned him another laugh, and then Athos very deliberately brushed a finger against Aramis' jaw, the feel of it stunning Aramis into speechlessness, as always.

"Until tomorrow," Athos murmured, and the small smile he gave Aramis made it feel like the most heartfelt of farewells.

Aramis watched the sun set with his thumb against his mark and knew that Athos was secretly a romantic.

 

* * *

 

By the next day, Aramis had reconsidered that idea.

An assassination attempt on the king kept them all busy in the morning, Athos already out on the hunt by the time Aramis had mustered, and they spent the first day barely seeing each other but for brief glances across the palace courtyard.

Aramis hadn't expected much, truly he hadn't, he knew that Musketeer business had to come first, but he had expected _something_ more than the small nod Athos gave everyone.

It was irrational, but then love often was.

Falling into bed after a whole day on his feet was only worsened when he pulled a blanket about his shoulders and realised it smelled of Athos, sharp winds and throaty wines, so at odds yet perfect together.

A bit like them.

It was the same blanket he had woken up with yesterday, the one Athos must have found so he wouldn't be cold, and Aramis wondered whether Athos worried about him, the way Aramis worried about him, the way Aramis worried about Porthos.

It wasn't as often, it struck at odd moments like when he saw his brothers brawling or when Porthos' favourite stars studded the sky, but it was still strong, still _there._

Aramis wasn't sure what to do about it, and even less sure after Athos had insisted his wrist be rebound at the first opportunity, the red rawness of the skin making even Treville wince, so it was with itchy skin that he crawled into bed, itchier still having been on the lookout for a potential assassin all day.

Exhaustion was a lingering pallor at the edges of his vision, but Aramis still found the energy to sigh heavily, his fingers curling in the fabric of his blanket and wishing it was Athos' shirt.

Courting didn't have much to say for it at this rate.

The next day, however, he amended that idea.

Aramis was late to muster, he had stayed awake too long thinking of Athos, of his marks, of Porthos, and threw himself out of his rooms half-dressed the next morning.

Promptly tripping over something in the hallway.

He managed to catch himself before falling flat on his face, putting pressure on his left wrist and sending it twinging, but it was better than collapsing onto the floor.

With the sun making its steady way across the sky, Aramis debated just running, but it wasn't often a parcel was left on his doorstep without his prior knowledge.

Actually, it never happened, the only things that showed up unannounced at his door was Porthos, and Aramis had never really minded that.

The mystery was too great, and so Aramis nudged at the oddly wrapped thing with a foot, frowning when it crinkled easily, and frowning further when it was heavy to the touch.

The sound of his landlady leaving downstairs meant that he was definitely late, and so he threw caution to the wind and ripped the paper aside to reveal bright flashes of white and one splash of crimson.

Flowers.

Someone had sent him flowers.

Aramis' fingers trembled a little as he reached for a bloom, the petals a soft caress as he started pushing stems aside, searching for a card, a letter, anything that might indicate who it was from.

There was nothing, not even the florist's mark, but Aramis knew his prose, his poetry, and he could make a decent stab at what those flowers meant.

White for apology, the long stems and graceful arrangement for dedication, time, _feeling._

A single wine-red iris for love.

It was Athos, it had to be, only Athos would send him flowers, would put such _thought_ into it, and so Aramis picked up the red flower and put it in his jacket buttonhole, the scarlet obvious against the brown.

The stem nipped his thumb with a thorn, and Aramis hissed, sucking at the hurt even as he smiled. The flowers themselves were trying to tell him who had sent them.

Stunning and sharp, just like Athos.

Excruciatingly late, Aramis couldn't really care, just as he didn't care when he strolled into the garrison and received a dozen catcalls from his brothers when they spotted his new floral accoutrement.

It was worth it just to see Athos look up from a spar with a scowl that shot straight to shock, shock that slowly melted through embarrassment and into a soft glow of sheepish delight when Aramis beamed at him.

Athos was a romantic, he knew it.

 

* * *

 

The fourth day brought a different type of red, not the red of flowers or the red of wine, but the red of blood, and it spilled from Aramis' wrist at an errant twist in a spar with a brother.

Athos stepped between them in an instant, as if he had been watching them closely rather than talking over patrol rosters with Treville, one gloved hand held up to his opponent's face and the other reaching for Aramis'.

If it wasn't for the pain, Aramis might have smiled slyly at Athos' protectiveness, but as it was he was given a careful examination and then a brusque jerk of the head towards the infirmary.

Aramis obeyed the dangerous gleam in those blue eyes, but called good-naturedly over his shoulder, "This isn't over, Joubert!"

"Yes it is," Athos murmured, steering him by the forearm and not letting go until Aramis fell onto the same bench he had sat before, the bench where he had told Athos about Porthos.

Told one red line about the other, and now one of them was black.

Aramis sat patiently as Athos gathered the materials, instinctive worry warring with his desire to stop Aramis' pain making his movements quick and irritable. "How did you even see? Your nose was buried in paper."

Athos met his gaze for only one guilty second, but then he must have remembered that he _could,_ that Aramis may very well have enjoyed it, because a smirk tugged at his lip. "Your riposte on the third step was atrocious."

Aramis wrinkled his nose, making that smirk go wider. "I'm not sure whether I'm pleased that I can distract you, or frustrated that you're giving me lessons when I'm bleeding."

Athos gave a delicate scoff as he dipped a bowl in a bucket of water. "This is the best time to give lessons, you're more likely to remember."

Content to be cared for, Aramis teased, "I remember everything you say, Athos."

"Flattery will not get you out of sparring practice," Athos murmured in amusement, but when Aramis went to pout, a pale finger curled around his chin. "With me, this time."

Aramis' next breath didn't leave when it was supposed to, and he was left staring, motionless, into a hooded gaze just the right side of heated.

It was lost to the bandages, Athos' utter focus on unwinding his wrist instead, and Aramis wondered what he had seen in those whirlwind eyes, because it had looked like—

Aramis winced when the wet cloth swept over his skin, and he almost missed the moment Athos revealed a mark as red as the blood that trickled over it.

Porthos' mark, Porthos' still very obvious and still very unrequited mark.

Aramis' gut seemed to open, and he wasn't sure if it was with fear that Athos would recoil or relief that the mark he'd had for most of his life was still there.

 _Oh God,_ the relief.

"Athos—" Aramis started, sickness roiling in his very veins as he tried to say something, _do_ something, but nothing seemed to excuse it, nothing excused a promise his heart had made all those years ago.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and it was the apology that made Athos tense, made surprise light his eyes, but he relaxed again when those same eyes darted further up Aramis' forearm.

As if worried his mark had gone.

Aramis flinched when Athos lifted his hand, but could only stare when Athos pressed a kiss to his bloodied palm.

"It's okay," Athos murmured, smile small but steady, as steady as his hands as he bandaged Aramis up, and as steady as Aramis' love for two men who had never met.

"Is it?"

Athos was careful not to touch the other mark, not even when covered in cloth and knotted securely away. Aramis felt that same sense of loss when he could no longer see it, that same sense of worry, but then Athos held both his hands in his.

"I called you generous, Aramis, how can I be surprised by a quality I admire so much?"

Aramis tried to duck his head, but blue eyes that warmed with a hesitant smile held him bound.

"He is your first," Athos murmured, as if it explained everything, but it didn't, it wasn't enough.

"And you are my last," Aramis stated, refusing to ever allow Athos to think himself anything less than wonderful, anything less than utterly and absolutely adored. Aramis would spend a lifetime if he had to, and he planned to.

Athos succeeded in ducking his head, in moving away from the intensity of the moment when Aramis would have pushed for a kiss, but Athos was very good at doing that lately.

Aramis watched Athos busy himself with cleaning up and wondered how to convince a man so used to self-recrimination and so new to love.

"It doesn't change anything, I still…" Athos tensed so very slightly, his muscles tightening and his gaze flicking to Aramis' as if eager, _keen_ to hear what Aramis had already vowed to remind him of for the rest of their lives.

There was no need for exuberant gifts with Athos, no loud declarations or gaudy baubles, but Aramis knew that. It was simple things and simpler words that Aramis wanted to whisper every day for forever, just to see that brief flash of surprise followed by the delighted flush.

For Athos, the words were new.

"I love you," Aramis said, and it felt like giving a gift, felt like receiving one when Athos tried to hide his smile and failed in the most spectacular of ways.

It struck Aramis then that he had been rather terribly remiss, and on the heels of wanting to see that slightly shy smile for the rest of his days, an idea unfurled like jewelled wings in the sun.

"Athos, would you come to my rooms this evening?"

Athos paused, shyness guttering to be replaced with wariness, and Aramis wondered what he was afraid of.

"I would like to buy you dinner."

Athos huffed a confused laugh. "Why?"

"It only seems fair that I get to court you too," Aramis replied simply and, when Athos started to stammer, pushed a strand of hair back from his aristocratic face and added, "I'll see you at seven."

Seven for Athos meant bang on seven, and seven for Aramis meant sometime within the hour, so Aramis was breathlessly dragging a clean shirt on and swearing at a burn on his fingers when he heard a knock at the door.

Suitably ill-prepared with his curls askew and sucking on his index finger to salve the heat, Aramis opened the door to see Athos' fidgeting suddenly stop.

That bright-sky gaze arrowed to his mouth and then seemed to drag forcibly to the floor.

"I, ah, didn't know what to wear," Athos said awkwardly, missing Aramis' knowing smile, but he didn't miss the slow trail from black-booted feet to leather-jacketed chest. Athos in his Musketeer uniform was a sight that nobody could ever tire of, surely?

"I'm sure I can restrain myself for an evening," Aramis drawled, finding it incredibly endearing to watch Athos deal with his emotions, but they swiftly turned to confusion and Aramis was all too happy to explain. "Athos, please, we all turn into someone different when we don our gear, but you… you were born to wear it."

Athos blinked at him, trying to parse through the sentence. "I think that was a compliment."

"It most definitely was," Aramis purred, and tried not to grin when Athos gave him a startled look. "Come in or the wine will get cold."

"We wouldn't want that," Athos murmured, and flourished his own bottle.

"Ever the gentleman," Aramis repeated, and would do so forever, because Athos was – and not just on the surface, not just the elegant stature or the dignified words, but because it showed in everything he did, in the wine and the care and the _attention._

It was only a matter of time before Aramis felt those deft fingers at the base of his spine as they walked, he was sure of it.

As it was, Aramis insisted Athos walk ahead of him, which meant Athos stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the candles.

There was a brief moment of absolute shock, and then Athos turned with a frown, concerned gaze going straight to his hand. "You hurt yourself."

It was a statement, but Aramis answered with a laugh anyway. "Yes, I had rather forgotten how punctual you are."

"You did say seven, didn't you?" Athos asked, nervousness the lie to how easily he reached for Athos' fingers, hissing in sympathy when he saw the red welt.

"Yes, Athos, I said seven," Aramis replied fondly, wondering whether Athos could see how far he had come since they had met, how far they had _both_ come.

Aramis wondered whether Porthos would see.

Athos cocked his head to the side, nose in the air and frown on his brow. "I could almost believe you cooked the food yourself."

"I did," Aramis answered easily, closing the door and everything else with it. Everything except picklocks. "Are you surprised?"

"I'm surprised, yes," Athos murmured, deliberately looking about Aramis' rooms. "You don't have a kitchen."

"No, but my landlady does."

Athos' head whipped around, fear pinching his face. "Does she—?"

"Yes, Athos, she knows," Aramis murmured, smile a little sad when Athos' automatic response was fear, when it _had_ to be fear, for them both. "It's fine, she's known… a long time."

There was a question there, but as always, Athos wouldn't ask it. Others had, had asked and been disappointed in the answer.

_Who else have you brought here, cooked for, loved?_

Athos looked around the room, at the candles and the wine and the food, at the truths untold and the truths they couldn't tell, and he stepped closer, taking Aramis' hand again to press a kiss to the knuckles. "Thank you, for this."

Aramis beamed, but when he would have angled for a kiss on the lips, Athos somehow managed to move away, a subtle step of feet that had Aramis pouting.

Candlelit dinners and holding hands was all very well, but how was he going to win Athos over if he wasn't allowed to properly touch him?

Athos poured the wine, Aramis served the food, and their talk was full of secret smiles and loud laughs, the pair of them trying to picture Treville's face if he knew they were breaking a cardinal rule.

 _A cardinal rule, indeed,_ Athos had murmured, and their eyes had met over dessert before Athos had to look away with a grin, and Aramis hadn't been able to stop looking at it.

And still, at the end, with Athos lingering in the doorway and Aramis lingering against his chest, Athos had brushed a finger over his cheek and left without so much as a goodnight kiss.

It had never taken him this long before, and yet Athos' farewells always managed to leave Aramis satisfied, leave him _giddy,_ as if he were young again, as if they both were.

Aramis' back sank against the closed door, and he caught sight of the napkin Athos had folded into a rose, and smiled.

He could wait, waiting was simple.

 

* * *

 

"It's been a week, you know," Aramis murmured, eyes closed as he faced the last rays of the setting sun, the roof tiles warm beneath his palms.

Athos stirred from their impromptu balcony, a bottle of wine turning Aramis' roof into a viewing platform – and turning Athos surprisingly welcome to Aramis' tactile nature.

"Not quite," Athos replied, and when Aramis squeezed open an eye in confusion, Athos ducked his head. "It will be a week tomorrow."

Athos had the uncomfortable seat against the chimney stack, and Aramis had the comfortable one against Athos' chest, his arms resting on the ones around his waist, the smell of warm leather and wine the most comforting thing in the world right now.

It had its dangers, sat up on the roof together like this. They were hidden from the street below, and it was a risky climb up to where they were, but the chance was there.

Of course, they faced that chance every single day and every time they touched, because no matter the lines, no matter the _love,_ it still wasn't the done thing.

And yet even Athos the gentleman had managed to find an exception, and that exception was a very smug Aramis.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite."

Athos' dry response made Aramis smile as he tried to piece the days together. Time had rather lost its meaning as of late, but he had a few landmark moments he could remember.

Aramis had tried twice more for a kiss to no success in the last two days, those taunting, tempting lips always kept just out of reach.

It was easiest when Athos left of an evening, easiest when Aramis smiled and Athos could be seen internally fighting a very visible, vicious war.

Aramis wasn't sure who or what won out, but it certainly wasn't him, not when Athos' lips brushed his knuckles instead. It had been six days since he had last tasted them, and he was starting to feel like an addict with the bottle.

Oh yes, Athos was right, it wasn't quite a week.

"If you say so," Aramis announced in compromise, and felt Athos' huff of laughter against his hair.

"If only you were always this amenable," Athos teased, and it was so easily and happily done that Aramis couldn't even take offence.

"Am I ever anything but?"

"My mind drifts to only this morning when you said, and I quote, _I will not suffer this infernal bandage any longer._ "

Aramis flushed, and used it as an excuse to tip his head against Athos' shoulder, to touch more of him. "It's horrid."

"It's _healing,_ " Athos murmured in amusement, the depth of fondness in it making Aramis smile. "You are remarkably obstinate for a medic, Aramis."

"Of course I am, I have to put up with obstinacy all the time," Aramis explained. "I've learned all the tricks."

"I fear the day I need your skills."

"So you should, for I'll kill anyone who caused the need."

It was a brutal statement, but then that was the flipside of loyalty. It wasn't often that it earned him a kiss against the cheek, one he couldn't help leaning in to, but then they were warriors first and lovers second.

Well, Athos was.

Athos was slowly getting more tactile, but it was a hard won – and hard fought for – thing, and every step, every touch, was a milestone.

Aramis was content, and not just because he had gotten a nuzzle, but he had started getting something else instead, something that made waiting for a kiss ever easier.

It was the look in Athos' eyes whenever Aramis absent-mindedly nibbled at his lip, whenever Aramis accidentally-on-purpose sidled up too close, whenever Aramis deliberately whispered Athos' name on midnight stake-outs when they were supposed to be silent.

It was the look of a man who was – as Athos himself had put it – _frustrated._

It was simply a waiting game.

Besides, the sun was warm and the wine was too, and with Athos' heartbeat at his back, Aramis was happy.

Actually, that heartbeat was a little arrhythmic.

Aramis opened his eyes to see Athos looking at him, and for the first time since he had initially caught him doing it, Athos didn't look away.

"What is it?" Aramis asked quietly, captured by bright-sky eyes that glowed gold in the sunset.

"I'm not sure," Athos answered, honesty making it hoarse. "I am a very lucky man."

Aramis frowned, his smile confused as he twisted against Athos' chest to face him. "How do you mean?"

Athos' gaze traced his face, the attention as soft and supplicant as his fingers were whenever he touched him. "You are… stunning."

A compliment from Athos was like a compliment from on high, and it left Aramis dizzy with delight, so dizzy that he didn't bother looking for the sound of nearby footsteps, too busy feeling punch-drunk from Athos' affections.

Aramis made to laugh away the words, to preen and make Athos smile, but he stilled when deft fingers gently pushed his hair back and rested against his cheek, something precious and petitioning in it.

_Oh._

Athos was close now, and Aramis shifted slightly to get closer, until he could feel the short, shaking breaths leave Athos' mouth and the trembling touch at his jaw.

"May I?"

Aramis laugh was whisper quiet and eager with it, his own hand resting on Athos' sun-warmed thigh to balance himself. "You don't need to ask, Athos."

Athos' fingers firmed, vulnerability turning to vigour, worry to worship. "I do, I love you."

Aramis' smile was a delighted thing, his reply conspiratorial and coy. "That's why you don't need to ask. I love you, too."

That same surprise flickered across Athos' face, but it was the smile that Aramis focused on, the smile that pressed carefully, _carefully,_ against his.

There was still wine on Athos' lips, complex and elegant, just like the man. There was a nip in the flavour that wasn't in the kiss, but there was something about the way fingertips tightened against his skin, in his hair, that told him a nip might come with time.

A _bite,_ a refined, reproaching bite, the like a wolf gave.

Aramis chased the taste, sought the bite, but Athos breathed into the kiss as if savouring the moment, as if savouring _him,_ and Aramis melted.

Athos kissed as if he wanted to remember everything, every movement, every sound, as if he wasn't sure if he would get to do it again and he wanted to play it over in delicious detail. Aramis gladly gave the details, he curled his nails into leather-clad legs and brushed his nose along Athos', seeking more.

He found it when Athos gave a sharp inhale and Aramis could sweep past wine-stained lips and taste from the cask, warm and wonderful and worryingly addictive.

Aramis knew he could kiss Athos every day for the rest of his life and still need more.

A whine escaped his throat when Athos pulled away, and Athos huffed a laugh, thumb smoothing over Aramis' cheekbone. "This is hardly the place."

"Then let's _go_ to the place," Aramis grumbled, and was silenced by a kiss from pink lips and pinker cheeks.

"You are still deplorable," Athos murmured, but it was lacking the refined bite Aramis wanted to feel against his skin, instead it was unbearably tender, and Aramis was forced to sigh. The hand slid to beneath his chin, a hint of that reprimanding look he loved so much glinting in those flustered eyes. "This is not the end, Aramis."

"I know," he replied quietly, smiling when he flexed his fingers and Athos realised they were still hooked onto his thigh. "I wouldn't let it be."

"Nor I." A thumb pressed against his forearm, an insistent push over a mark that pulsed lazily, and bright-sky eyes cleared with a smirk. "I would kill whoever tried."

Aramis tilted his head for one more kiss, a lasting, languorous thing that spoke of oaths and intent, of love first and war second, but the two were entwined, and so were they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cake is a St. Honoré cake, and Aramis' flower translations are very slightly off, but the intent is what matters...! Let's hope there aren't any intentions for volcano day in the next chapter, eh? 
> 
> Spoiler: there are, there's blood and lava everywhere, and wings get burned.


	7. Élevage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my apples and apologies for the time, but I was in hospital for a while and writing rather escaped me. Your comments keep me going, just promise not to throw things at me when you're finished reading, okay? As always, thanks to misanthropiclycanthrope for betaing and encouragement <3

> My heart is stone and still it trembles  
> The world I have known is lost in shadow.  
> Is he from heaven or from hell?  
> And does he know  
> That granting me my life today  
> This man has killed me even so?
> 
> \- ' _Les Misérables',_ Alain Boublil (lyricist)

Athos had slept with the taste of Aramis on his lips, and thought it better than the finest wine.

There had been a time where such things would have haunted him, but this was sweet torture, this was memories of cinnamon curls and devilish smiles and _joy._

Such joy to be found in those soft brown eyes.

Once again he declined a cold water wake up call, he didn't need one when what got him out of bed in the morning was the thought of seeing Aramis, of seeing him circle the sparring yard like a colourful bird, fluorescent feathers and killer claws.

What got him out of bed _and_ with a rarely seen smile was the thought of touching him, of all the little touches they could get away with, touches he hadn't known he'd liked, hadn't known he liked _giving._

Going a day without Aramis seemed unbearable, going an hour without touching him was unthinkable.

Athos spared a moment to laugh ruefully at himself, to shake his head at this strange caricature he had become, and all because of a line on his arm and a smile that sent butterflies scattering through his stomach.

Although what was it Aramis had called him, complete with a teasing look that had tapered off suddenly? Perhaps they were wasps, instead.

They buzzed rather pleasantly right now.

Athos was always one of the first into the garrison, there to see over the changing of the guard, to see whether Treville had slept in his office or somewhere else entirely – hastily dressed and neck bearing marks Athos was starting to recognise, _starting_ to because one blazed on his arm, the only place Aramis could get away with kissing whenever he pleased.

It was hard to deny Aramis anything, but Athos lost all hope when slender fingers touched the bare, vulnerable skin of his wrist, and Athos hoped fiercely when lips touched there instead.

Hoped for never-ending happiness.

Aramis' lateness made Athos smile, no doubt he was poring over the cake that Athos had woken up extra early to find and deliver to his front door. He would school the amusement when Aramis finally pranced in though, because – and he remembered with a flush – _Aramis liked his scowl._

The man was deplorable, and Athos adored him.

Leaving had been difficult last night, the roof a sun-bathed paradise and brown eyes an oasis, and if Aramis had asked him to stay, Athos may very well have done – before being overcome with nerves, of course.

But a dazed Aramis had simply offered him a sweet and simple goodbye, his eyes glazed and his fingers staying linked with Athos' until the last possible moment.

It had concerned Athos, that daze, plagued as he was with anxieties that he was doing everything wrong, because surely he _would,_ eventually. It only made him more determined to try harder, to _love_ better.

He had to, because he had to be worthy of Aramis' love, and not just the generosity, the companionship, the fond little touches, but the other ones, the ones that made Aramis smirk and Athos' blood heat.

They were all Aramis' touches, like the suck mark on his wrist or the fingers on his thigh, and any chance of coherent thought that Athos might have possessed just whisked away on a baffled buzzing of wings.

He had tried to keep his distance from Aramis, tried and failed – and not only because _personal space_ was not a phrase in Aramis' vocabulary.

It was hardly a bad thing, not when mere proximity sent Athos' heart thumping, but it played havoc with his common sense; which, he imagined, was rather the point.

Simply being around Aramis was dizzying, so being smiled at by Aramis, being touched by Aramis – and being _able_ to touch back, to be welcomed – was enough to have Athos reeling, have him wanting to run, to hide from what he didn't understand.

And yet…

And yet he could not run, he certainly couldn't hide from the man who seemed to have a compass that pointed straight to him. It didn't matter how overwhelmed Athos was feeling, it felt wrong to turn away from Aramis, and it felt right to simply look at him, look and return the soft smile Aramis gave, Aramis who could always tell when he was floundering, when he felt as if he was as weightless as air, as fragile wings.

Aramis was there to hold his hand.

It had come as a surprise, the sudden desire to touch him back, but not as shocking as the need to kiss him, to kiss lips that curved happily in the setting sun and look into eyes that gleamed such wonderful promises.

For an age he had thought himself beyond such carnal desires, but then he had thought himself beyond many things, before Aramis.

It hadn't been a slow and sweet realisation as Athos had expected, it had been an urge that had hit him in the gut, a fire that had consumed him, a gust that had pushed him off of his feet.

Not a gentle wave but a toppling one, and yet for once he hadn't drowned.

How could he when Aramis was a warm anchor against his chest, how could he when that bizarre, irrational, _irreplaceable_ thing called love was one within him?

He had known that he knew nothing about love, but he still hadn't expected it to be sudden and intense, dizzying and reeling and toppling and _wonderful._

How apt that even falling in love with Aramis was so entirely reminiscent of him, so reminiscent of a wasp flirting with a butterfly, one built with beauty in mind, and the other, barbarism.

Aramis was ridiculously late now, late enough that Treville had seen off the last of the stragglers and disappeared up to his office – an office with closed shutters and a swiftly locked door for some reason, and Athos vaguely remembered seeing a cloaked figure enter not moments before.

So Athos supposed it was _his_ duty to deal with the man who all but thundered into the garrison, rider and horse both dark with sweat.

He would rather deal with the horse.

"Hey," the man called, panting as he patted his horse's neck, but he was aiming his overly-friendly look at Athos.

Athos was decidedly not looking at _him._ There were many things he had deigned to do when he became a Musketeer, and many more when he became Aramis'…

When he became Aramis'.

None of those things involved strangers who looked as if they had ridden solid for two days, nor did they involve ruddy-cheeked captains or odd pricklings up the back of his neck.

Athos did not believe in fate, just as he did not believe in luck, no matter how passionately Aramis spoke of their _fated meeting,_ told as if they met under aligned stars and cherry blossoms and not an overcast sky and crossed blades.

Even if he did enjoy hearing Aramis tell it.

The stranger had dismounted somewhere between Athos thinking of Aramis' smile and Athos deciding that he very much wanted to kiss that smile again, and soon.

"Hey, is Treville about?"

Athos spared the man a truly disinterested glance and continued staring at the archway to the garrison, waiting for Aramis to fill it and save him from this hell of societal niceties.

"No, he's busy," Athos murmured, because that's what he would want someone to say if he were captain, and he didn't particularly care about the powder blue cloak that fluttered damply about broad shoulders.

The unknown Musketeer was tall, built for barbarism in a different way to Athos, but his relaxed nature and genial smile made an attempt to bely all that. With leathers that were scored with countless lines, the armour was built for a fighter who tended to take a blow and charge back harder for it.

He was not the usual sort Athos expected to find in the order.

"Oh," the man continued, apparently unconcerned by Athos' attitude – in fact, he barely seemed to notice it, too busy with pushing blunt fingers through short, dark hair. "Have you seen Aramis, then?"

Athos, with all the grace of a spooked housecat, whipped his head around, and up, and up a little further, and asked cagily, "Why?"

Unshaved, unsavoury, and remarkably unwelcome, the man's friendliness disappeared. "What's it gotta do with you?"

"It has everything to do with me," Athos answered, but forewent the reply that wanted to hiss from between his lips, one that sounded far too possessive for just gone dawn, and instead went with one that befit the Musketeer emblem on his shoulder. "I am Treville's second."

The man almost reeled, surprise replacing the anger. "Really? Wow, lot changes in a month, don't even know who you are."

"Nor I, you, so I suggest you tell me before we have to get the captain involved and I fear that might cost me my neck," Athos replied irritably, and then because Aramis wasn't there to soothe his sting, added dryly, "Or you, yours, which I find far more preferable."

The placid nature of the man's brow began to furrow, and Athos congratulated himself on getting under someone's skin within seconds of meeting them.

Aramis would scold him, but then, Athos rather liked that.

Besides, what did the opinion of some stranger matter to them?

"I'm Aramis' oldest friend," the man answered, and Athos wondered why he said it with a small, almost sheepish smile. "And he's my black tally."

Athos flinched, and in some odd, slowed fashion, so did everything else. Heartbeat, breathing, buzzing, _being,_ and then it started again on a lurch, the way a horse bolts from the stables or a shot lands somewhere in the gut.

_No._

"Porthos."

It was not a question, and Athos almost thought he hadn't spoken aloud, but his whisper must have travelled over the sudden absence of his breathing and the jingle of tack, because Porthos settled into a stance, something insanely smug about his smile. "He's talked about me, then?"

"As if I knew you myself," Athos replied numbly, his lips barely moving whereas his eyes couldn't stop, couldn't stop looking at the man who shouldn't be here, _couldn't_ be here, because he wasn't due back for weeks, and only an emergency should have brought him.

Love, though, never played by the rules, and intentions always did.

Athos refused to believe it, it had to be a mistake, surely his luck hadn't run out so soon, _surely._ "Show me."

Porthos bristled at the command, but tugged up his sleeve without looking at it, thumb going immediately to the newest mark, three lines deep and the first on the paragraph. "There."

Athos stared at it, stared at that innocuous black mark and wanted love to be a lie. "How do you know it's his?"

Porthos raised a brow as if he wondered how Athos didn't know, how Athos didn't know what marks felt like, because Athos didn't, he only had Aramis', and that felt like…

"I _know_. Feels like sunshine and," Porthos' voice went unbearably soft, "butterfly wings."

And like a butterfly wing that flapped half a lifetime away, it changed everything.

Athos wanted to be sick, his mouth dropping open as he almost stumbled backwards, his fingers going for his wrist, his thumb to the one black mark under his sleeves.

_Sunshine, and butterfly wings._

Athos looked up at the skies and wanted them to fall.

Time, however, refused to stand still, the world kept turning and life kept hurting, and Porthos gave him one strange look before brushing past him, intent on finding his black tally.

On finding Aramis.

Without fully realising, Athos put himself in the way, finding something inherently _wrong_ in that thought, and the numbness in his stomach turned to something else. It turned to buzzing, and it was back with a vengeance.

"No."

Athos said it simply, plainly, and as a fact, because his emotions were taking a while to catch up to everything else, _he_ was taking a while to catch up, because for all he wanted the skies to fall and rivers to stop and winds to die, he wasn't sure _why._

But he knew that he might very well kill anyone who touched Aramis today.

Porthos didn't react as he expected; Athos was used to immediate obeisance these days, his short time in the garrison overshadowed by a lifetime of training, but Porthos simply stuck his tongue in his cheek and lowered his brow, the picture of indolence.

"Who're you to stop me?"

Under the buzzing, the fraught, frantic, _furious_ buzzing, Athos quailed.

Terror was a long-lost friend to Athos, terror was the beast that had made its bed alongside his when he sent his wife to die, and terror was the only thing he knew when her mark failed to fade.

Terror yawned, terror stretched, and terror curled up around his shoulders and whispered, _you should have known this was coming._

In the beginning, he had, it was part of what made it easier to rebuff Aramis, to close himself off from that beautiful smile, but Aramis had banished the terror, had sent it to bed without any barley water and brought Athos into his own.

Athos looked at the man who had long held Aramis' heart, and hated him.

He had hoped this moment would never come, that he would never have to deal with it, to see a figure wreathed of tales, of soft smiles and brawler's bruises, to _lose_ what precious happiness he had somehow managed.

But perhaps that was it, Athos did not deserve such a thing. How could he? His transgressions were many and varied, and they ended with hoping that Porthos would never return.

He had ever been a selfish man, but here he was at its pinnacle, hoping to deny Aramis' wonderful generosity what it wanted. What it deserved, what it had waited for, because Porthos would not be an unknown like Marsac, he would not be an impossibility, a curiosity, a _pain,_ forever. Porthos was here, at last.

At long, long last.

Athos' eyes narrowed.

Porthos had made Aramis wait, Aramis who had loved him eternal, Aramis who loved all who he came across, and Porthos had made him wait.

Athos decided then that Porthos did not deserve such happiness either, and perhaps, just this once, Athos would fight for something he had once not believed in. He would fight for love. He would fight for Aramis.

_Who am I?_

He could have said _Musketeer,_ he could have said _Treville's right hand,_ he could even have said _Comte de la Fère,_ but none of those things mattered, and only one person did.

"I'm Aramis' black tally."

He expected Porthos to recoil, to feel as sick as he did, but Porthos simply glowered, stubbornness jutting around his jaw as he looked Athos up and down. "You're not 'is usual type."

It was an odd thing to feel two warring emotions in one's chest. At first, Athos wanted to cringe, because he wasn't, he knew he wasn't, he wasn't charming or attractive, he wasn't a thinker or a brawler, he was nothing like Aramis' past.

But then, there was pride in that too.

And, for once, there was pride in himself, because he knew what he offered, he knew what he had, and he had Aramis, Aramis who whispered his good points and compliments and promises, Aramis who applauded his triumphs and cherished his flaws.

Athos let a sneer lift his lip very slightly, his palm coming to rest on his hilt. "No, I'm better."

Aramis always said he liked his haughtiness.

Athos watched Porthos roll onto the balls of his feet, glare fierce and tongue between his teeth as he tested the moment, tested _Athos._ Athos who drew his sword in a soft song of metal and braced almost lazily.

Aramis liked that, too.

 

* * *

 

Porthos was not slow on the uptake.

"You wanna spar?"

It wasn't a question, not one aimed at Athos anyway, it was one aimed at himself, at the situation, at the closed captain's door and the absent soul for whom they were both marked.

"It's what Musketeers do," Athos answered, and in a mockery of his first day in the garrison, when a wasp had swiped at a butterfly, he added snidely, " _brother._ "

Porthos' immediate glower was exactly what Athos wanted. "Rules?"

Athos looked along his sword, the blade an extension of himself, and glanced up under his eyebrows. "May the best man win."

Porthos growled, and of all things, Athos felt one in his own throat.

A distant bell marked another half hour that Aramis hadn't shown, but then Porthos drew his weapon, and Athos had to pause, had to focus.

Dirty and sweat-soaked Porthos may be, but he was still a warrior, still a Musketeer, and still good enough – or sneaky enough – to dump Aramis on his behind occasionally.

Something sharp and equally sneaky in Athos' gut told him that this was important, that _beating_ Porthos was important, and the rational part of his brain wasn't sure why.

But then love wasn't rational, just as it didn't follow the rules.

He had a feeling that neither would they.

Porthos lunged first, broad blade well-maintained and gleaming even after his scurry north. Athos could easily move aside, finding it ever so natural to stow away all of his emotions and devote himself to the fight.

Only Aramis could distract him when they sparred, and even then it was only to smile, to laugh, and Aramis never pushed the advantage – not when swords were involved, at least.

Porthos' irritation fuelled his own, and every strike that was met, every riposte that was countered, every step that was mirrored, only served to goad them both further.

The bastard wasn't supposed to be _good_ at this.

Porthos was bigger, and brawnier, and more boisterous, but Athos had already said it, _he was better._

Athos kept him constantly moving, their scuffs in the sand looking as if they had brawled in it – and he was always on the lookout for a sign that Porthos might try some underhanded tactic, just as Athos was always aware of where the sun was.

Of where he would trick Porthos into standing if he needed to.

Athos didn't plan on killing him, but even the best made mistakes.

A flick of his left wrist had Porthos pausing, surprise stretching that strangely scarred eye when Athos easily wielded his sword in his other hand. Porthos hesitated as he tried to rearrange his patterns, which was exactly what Athos wanted.

It was nothing more than a nick on clenched fist, an inch long if anything, and something very dark and satisfied made itself known in Athos' smile, wider when he knew he had marked Porthos with an arm that bore Aramis' line.

Athos was no fool, it was a gentleman's game, yes, but it was beastly too.

If Porthos had stood down, if Porthos had _backed off_ , Athos would have walked away, but Porthos did not, and so Athos' smile gained an edge of teeth.

He wondered whether the wound _stung,_ whether Porthos felt it on his wrist as well as on his hand, just where Athos had accidentally cut Aramis. It was bizarrely enjoyable to think of something petty, of hissing, _I crossed out your mark._

Aramis had taught Athos many things, he had taught him how to laugh, how to live, how to love, but through all of that he had accidentally taught him something else, and it was taught on a rooftop where death was sworn if the other was hurt.

It was jealousy, and it turned wasps into hornets, buzzing into stinging, and it turned gentlemen into beasts.

Porthos flared his fingers to look at the blood trickling down his wrist, and Athos thought it the red cape to a bull. A humourless laugh, a clenched fist, and Porthos lowered his head as if preparing to gore him.

There, in the dawning light, he looked rather ferocious.

"C'mon then, no more tricks."

Athos took a leaf out of Aramis' deplorable book and wondered whether Porthos could hear it in his voice. "That was no trick, simply skill."

Porthos snarled, blade at the ready – and Athos was interested to note it gave him just enough time to prepare for his attack. "If we weren't in the garrison—"

"You would what," Athos interrupted, tone high and disbelieving, _disparaging_ of a man unlike any other in the regiment, "kill me?"

Porthos' mutter was full of dire promise. "I'd beat the fuckin' daylights outta you."

"I would like to see you _try,_ " Athos hissed, forced into dancing away from a deadly cleave, but as the buck to Porthos' bull, Athos regained his footing in a small puff of sand, and struck.

A sharp bang sounded a split second before Porthos' blade met Athos' and held, the moment stretched tight like straining limbs and grimacing lips.

It could have been a gunshot, but neither dared look away from the other, Porthos using the lull to force his weight on Athos' wrist, locking him into place. This was the one place he did not want to be, not caught in a standstill, not relying on brute strength, and not this close to a man that Aramis still loved.

Athos stared into eyes the colour of rain-damp soil, and in them, he saw his downfall.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Treville's voice cracked across the yard like a whip, and this time, they both flinched.

Athos tore away, wrist aching, and only because Porthos was stumbling to attention did he manage to get away without that broad blade slicing through his neck.

Athos would have preferred that, would have preferred death to the shame that seared his very being when caught truly fighting by his captain.

His captain who had smacked his office door open only to be followed by none other than Cardinal Richelieu.

Athos was tempted to just throw himself onto Porthos' blade now and be done with it all.

The only saving grace in all this was that Porthos looked as if he had been caught snacking before dinner, his eyes closed and his hand up on his neck – a hand that was still a little bloodied.

"Where is Aramis?" Treville demanded, and Athos' pride took a bit more of a battering when the captain looked straight at him.

"He's not here," Athos answered uselessly, and tried his hardest not to look at the way Treville seemed very hastily dressed for some reason.

"Well find him, I want you out of the garrison and you aren't to return until tomorrow. Brawling like bloody children."

"You disgrace your captain by playing in the dirt," Richelieu drawled, and simply smirked when Treville stomped up the stairs and shoved him back into the office with something that sounded suspiciously like _legal restraints._

"Dick," Porthos muttered under his breath.

Humiliation was what doused the irrational anger that had buzzed inside of them, and it left Athos exhausted, left him slumping as he sheathed his weapon. "That's putting it mildly."

It earned a glimmer of a grin, the briefest flash before they both remembered that they despised each other. Athos was happy to leave Porthos in his dust, forever if he had his way, but Porthos apparently thought otherwise.

With a jerk of his head at that re-locked door, Porthos asked, "How long's that been goin' on?"

"Long before I arrived," Athos murmured reluctantly. "I'm surprised you hadn't noticed."

Porthos' amusement faded away, leaving Athos briefly confused. "I guess I didn't see what was in front of me."

Athos rolled his eyes and left the garrison with an angrily muttered, "No, you did not."

 

* * *

 

Porthos jogged to catch up with him, apparently ignorant of the way Athos was trying to murder him with his mind if he wasn't allowed to with his blade.

"What makes you think 'e's at 'ome?"

Athos wanted to scowl, because of course Porthos recognised the path to Aramis' lodgings, he would have made it a thousand times, and may make it a thousand more.

Athos bit his tongue to stop him from swearing, bit his cheek to stop from hurting.

"It's unlike him to be late," he answered instead, voice a vicious murmur when all he wanted was to tell Porthos to get back to Lyon and do his duty so that Athos could do his, to Aramis.

Porthos frowned down at him, long legs easily keeping pace as they traversed Paris' narrow sidestreets. "He's always late."

Athos' glower cleared almost instantaneously, and Porthos' got worse. "Not for me, he isn't."

Porthos muttered something under his breath about _wasps an' fuckin' butterflies,_ but before Athos could ask whether it was _Porthos_ that had given him that nickname, they arrived at Aramis', at the place Athos had kissed him only the night before.

Athos almost thought he could feel his heart hurt.

As Athos knocked on the door, Porthos just pushed past him for the key hidden behind stone, and threw a mocking look over his shoulder. "Didn't know about it?"

"Aramis offered me a key," Athos said casually, and did some pushing past of his own when Porthos gaped at him after opening the door.

"I don't need a key," Porthos countered, but before he could tell some supposedly fateful tale about lockpicks, Athos cut him off so very simply.

"No, _you_ don't."

Aramis' rooms were empty, but untidy. It wasn't a surprise, Aramis had been half asleep when Athos had left, and they had made a bit of a mess as they prepared their impromptu picnic in the sunset.

Still, everything seemed rather more disturbed to Athos' trained eye, as if left in a hurry.

"I dunno why you're bein' so fuckin' difficult about this, Aramis is my best mate, 'as been for years, no matter what you think's goin' on between you—"

Athos twitched at the word _think,_ and it fuelled the rather bitter undertone to his reply. "I don't particularly care what _you_ think, I just want to know where Aramis is."

Porthos cut him an unimpressed look and stole an apple from the fruit they hadn't eaten on the roof. Athos rather childishly wanted to smack it from his hand. "He's probably still out from last night."

"Aramis was with me last night," Athos answered in a distracted murmur, missing the way Porthos' attention whipped to him when he stepped back outside.

There was the baker's bag he had left this morning; he must have missed it when Porthos insisted on reaching Aramis' door first.

"Strange for 'im to leave without 'is hat," Porthos mused, and drew back in outrage when Athos snatched it from him. "Hey!"

Athos' fingers went to the band that normally held a feather, and then the hat dropped from his hand.

"Don't fuckin' drop it, 'e'll never forgive me," Porthos muttered, brushing off the rim before looking at Athos and frowning. "You all right?"

Athos stared at a shade of blue he had never wanted to see again, and began to shake, his palm going to his wrist in search of a mark he had not sought for a long, long time.

The faint, silvered scars pushed back against his touch, and one single black line pulsed weakly, as gentle as a dawning sun and dew-damp wings.

"We need to find him."

Terror curled that little bit tighter around his shoulders, claws furrowing in age-old grooves that spoke of _duty_ , and it forced a tremble into his voice.

Porthos' eyes didn't narrow as Athos had thought they would, but his brow furrowed, something remarkably like concern written deep within it. "How, he could be anywhere."

If only, if only it was anywhere but _there._

"I know where he'll be," Athos whispered, and Porthos followed his frantic gaze to a tiny blue flower tucked into the ribbon of Aramis' hat. "I know who has him."

The concern crested, and large, warm hands closed around Athos' biceps, worry and determination setting soil alight. "Who?"

Athos felt misery snake down his spine, and knew he had failed in his duty once more.

It was intent, not love, that had truly marked Athos' wrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, a bit disgustingly cliché, but hot damn if she doesn't perfectly fit into this storyline. 
> 
> There is a question in italics somewhere in this fic that Athos asks of himself; I will write you a ficlet if someone answers it with exactly what went through my head at the writing of it. It's a quote, of sorts, and linked to the chapter quote, because I've missed you all.


	8. Manipulant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year, but it feels a lot longer. As an apology, there's an extra chapter, because who doesn't love a little bit of enemies to, uh, friends? I have grotesquely elongated the time it should take for them to get to Athos' stomping grounds, but I needed me a bit of that Porthathos grumpiness.
> 
> Cuddles to [misanthropiclycanthrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/works), who encouraged me for every word I managed to get out. You kept NJN going, Drake, and you rock <3

> Why, what should be the fear?  
>  I do not set my life at a pin's fee,  
>  And for my soul, what can it do to that,  
>  Being a thing immortal as itself?  
>    
>  \- William Shakespeare,  _'Hamlet'_

They were on the road within the hour, saddlebags hastily packed and weapons hurriedly assembled. It was Treville who reminded Porthos to change his horse, just as it was Treville who took one look at them and shooed Cardinal Richelieu out of the room.

At any other time, Athos might have winced at the repercussions, might have feared a reprisal from any Red Guard on the street, but there was an urgency under his skin, a desperation in his eyes, and he would have cut through a hundred men if he had to. All he wanted was to find Aramis, to hold him, to  _love_  him.

That was a little difficult with the fidgety Musketeer at his side.

They were well out of Paris, had overtaken half a dozen travellers, and still Porthos spurred his horse on, sweat already lathering the poor beast's sides.

"Stop, for pity's sake," Athos called, slowing his mare with a glare aimed over her ears.

Porthos twisted in his saddle, as if hardly believing Athos was talking to him, and slowed only to ask, "Don't you care?"

Athos stared into that strangely scarred eye and wanted to strike him, wanted to strike him for pushing his horse, for pushing his luck, for pushing his way into Athos' life.

Athos did not run headlong into things; he didn't barrel his way through life or storm into battle without a plan. This was not the first time his emotions had been played like a fiddle, drowned in a river by a woman who could so easily break him.

She had done it before, and he was terrified she would do it again, with the one thing—the one  _person—_ who had brought colour to his life again.

So his plan was to be careful, because she certainly would be.

His plan was also to possibly lose Porthos in some woods, but that was by the by.

"I care enough not to kill myself on the way," Athos replied shortly. "We're already half a day behind, crippling your horse will not help matters."

Porthos pretended not to look down at the slight limp his mount had gained, but he slowed afterwards, one hand reaching forwards to stroke an apology along furred neck.

It annoyed Athos to see him being  _nice._

Porthos glowered at him then, and Athos could happily hate him again. "S'your fault e's gone."

Athos tried not to flinch and failed, curling into his saddle slightly as that ever-familiar mountain of guilt settled on his shoulders, except it came with a burn this time, lava seeping down his back and drowning him.

"I know it is," Athos replied quietly. Once, he would have shied away from the blame, but he knew he was at fault, he knew he always was. Aramis had called him loyal, but he wasn't, he hadn't protected him as he had promised, and yet he would give his life for Aramis if he could. It straightened his spine just a little. "I also know that he won't be harmed, that's not what this is about."

Porthos peered at him, focusing on the unbearable slump to Athos' shoulders. "What  _is_ it about?"

Athos opened his mouth to answer, but then he thought better of it, thought better of confiding in a man who had broken Aramis' trust, who had  _left._

A man who had come back.

Suddenly, the thought of travelling with Porthos for any length of time seemed positively vile, but knowing they had to pace themselves was worse. After Athos refused to answer, they stayed in silence, Porthos always speeding up and Athos always slowing him down.

Porthos' mutterings were full of blame, and every word was like another weight on Athos' back, another creak in the branch of a lone tree.

When their horses could take no more, Athos called for a stop, and Porthos grudgingly agreed. Athos had timed it perfectly, he always did, he knew the route like the back of his hand and hated that he did.

The inn was friendly to Musketeers, was run by a former one, and Athos felt Porthos' narrow-eyed gaze on his back as he dealt with the innkeeper, all the words Treville himself had secretly told him to get special treatment.

As their new horses were being saddled, Athos finally turned to see Porthos' brow risen high. "You weren't lyin' 'bout bein' Treville's second."

Athos pulled his gloves back on, distinctly unimpressed. "I don't lie."

"Just seems a bit soon, s'all."

Athos thought on that for a moment, thought about how proud he had been when he ascended through the ranks, how proud he had been when Aramis told him he deserved to be there.

_Aramis._

Athos mounted up, and looked down at Porthos from his lofty height. "The length of time is inconsequential, it's the person who matters."

Porthos' brow fell heavily when he realised Athos was no longer talking about the Musketeers, and they left the inn in silence once again, the wind throwing snatches of Porthos' curses back to him, but they were making good time, and Athos' thoughts were only of Aramis.

Of Aramis, and occasionally of spooking Porthos' horse off the road and hoping he got lost.

Apparently some of that ill-will made itself known in one of their short, terse conversations, and after one too many times of Athos irritably calling him to heel, Porthos had thrown his reins upon the horse's back.

"Why are you doin' this?" Porthos demanded angrily, so Athos raised an eyebrow as if it was obvious. "No, I get it, you ain't a friendly bastard at the best of times, but this ain't between me an' you."

Athos' brow rose higher if possible, and at the same time, the pit in his gut reached lower.

In a sense, Porthos was right, it wasn't between them, the lines on their wrists were not for them to decide – and Athos was sure Aramis would be appalled to know they had fought, that Athos had very seriously considered killing the first person who marked his wrist.

Yet that was not why Athos couldn't help but dislike the man who rode so annoyingly well beside him.

"You don't even know me," Porthos continued irritably, as if put out that Athos was judging him so early on.

"But I do know you," Athos snapped. "I have heard your name a hundred times these past weeks."

Porthos looked as if he wanted to preen but, fortunately for his own well-being, he did not. "So?"

Athos' horse minced in reflection of his anger, and Athos finally turned to glare at a man he didn't know, and yet knew intimately, knew from the broken voice that had told him everything.

"You broke Aramis' heart when you left."

Porthos reeled back in his saddle, surprise chasing its way across his face only to be followed by anger of his own. "An' you did your best to put it back together, eh?"

Athos sobered in surprise, thought of all those times he had delighted in making Aramis smile, in making him  _laugh,_ and how much he had hated his own delight, because he didn't think he deserved it, didn't think he should  _taint_ Aramis with his bitterness.

"I didn't mean to," Athos answered quietly.

Porthos gave the laugh of a man who accepted his fate. "Yeah, he 'as that effect."

Athos wondered whether he was supposed to see that as an olive branch extended between them, an offer of kinship between two people who loved the same man.

He snapped it with both hands.

"Not on you," he murmured snidely, and weathered the disgruntled look Porthos threw him.

Perhaps there were more reasons why Athos wanted to needle Porthos, wanted to make him hurt, as Porthos had made Aramis hurt all those years.

Clearly, Porthos didn't hate  _him_  – although Athos fully intended on rectifying that by the end of this – and yet Athos felt an alarming amount of animosity towards the man for reappearing when he did.

He had hoped it would never happen, but even though he knew it would, he thought he would have had more time, more time to love and be loved.

Now it felt as if his time was running out.

There was a decision coming that Athos refused to think about, a hole in his heart, on his wrist, in his  _life_ if the worst was to happen – and yet, what truly was the worst? He had said himself that Aramis' quality was generosity, did he honestly expect Aramis to  _choose?_

A selfish part of him said  _yes_ , but the part that had been coaxed to the foreground by tan fingers and sweet smiles said  _no_ , because to expect him to choose was akin to clipping his wings, was like hobbling him from love.

Aramis loved freely, loved  _truly,_ and Athos would protect every part of him, even if it meant losing him. Just like that, Athos realised why Aramis had hated the girl Porthos loved, but not Porthos himself, irrational though it was. Athos had enough hate for the man, anyway.

Aramis would not approve, and the thought was infinitely saddening.

As night fell, they passed by a carriage, the dust rising to choke them both. Athos could ignore the tickle at the back of his throat, the sting on his arm, the ache of his heart, but Porthos coughed.

It was annoying, more than anything, so Athos wordlessly held out his water.

Porthos stared at his profile in surprise, but took it with a gruff word of thanks, passed it back with another.

Athos stayed silent, until at last even their fresh horses started to tire, their gait not as smooth as it had been.

"We should stop, sleep."

His voice carried over their hoofbeats, but even he heard the reluctance in it, just as he heard it in Porthos' reply.

"I don't want to."

Athos sighed, the sound echoed by his horse. "Neither do I, but riding through the night we risk maiming the horses," Athos murmured, and then flicked a glance Porthos' way. "Or each other."

"I ain't gonna maim you," Porthos muttered, as if he was tired of Athos' prickliness.

For some reason, it made him want to smile.

It was a thought that discomfited him, a thought that kept him silent even when Porthos built up the fire and stared into it, just as Aramis had when Athos had found him on one of those first nights, and Athos had exposed his wrist in a gesture of  _trust._

Athos did not want to talk, he never did, and Aramis was the only one who could coax him into it, into talking, and trust, and tenderness. Without him there, Athos went into an uneasy sleep, the sound of their fire and Porthos' snores breaking the night.

Simple sounds, but not so simple thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Athos woke from a nightmare, Aramis' name on his lips, Aramis' name in the meat of his heart, but an older name scratched into the mess of his wrist, and a new, unfamiliar, but just as  _unwanted_ one in the fingers that gripped his shoulders.

Porthos called his name, shook him gently, and didn't rear back when Athos fully came to.

Athos felt his nails digging deep into shirt and skin alike, but Porthos' wrinkled brow was one of concern, not of fear.

It  _should_ be fear.

"What?" Athos hissed, trying to untangle himself from Porthos' steadying hold, but all it earned him was another once over, and then a roll of dark eyes as he let him go.

Athos expected a taunt, even a light jab or a comment for making so much noise in his sleep, but Porthos simply doused the fire, and for that, Athos was grateful.

Porthos  _did_ watch him warily when Athos melted into the treeline, but he didn't seem surprised when he returned with fresh water – although his attention did linger on his wet hair.

It had been a while since he had needed a cold water wake up, but without the promise of a sweet smile on his horizon, he found that he needed the motivation, the drive.

The punishment.

Punishment for his past transgressions, for his present ones, for his future. For not protecting Aramis, for promising to do so in the first place when he clearly wasn't fit to.

Every step he took closer to his birthplace made him feel smaller, and he knew that was the point. That was the reasoning behind all of this, because he had made those promises before, to someone else, and he had failed then too.

He was a failure, and she was simply reminding him.

They didn't speak until they were back on the road, the horses well-rested and amply fed – the same could not be said for Athos, and he didn't appreciate the apple Porthos tossed his way.

Athos had done the same for Aramis, once.

Porthos gave him a reproachful look until Athos bit into his breakfast, and then settled back into his saddle, annoyingly satisfied. "How much farther?"

"Another night, into the second," Athos answered sullenly.

"Oh, we're back to this, are we?"

"Back to what?" Athos snapped, mouth full of apple which he was tempted to just spit out, at Porthos' face.

"You bein' prickly," Porthos retorted, looking at Athos as if he were an idiot – and yet, there was something envious in it, too. "I'm the one that should be pissed off."

Athos frowned in confusion, chewing slowly to give himself time to think, and realised there was an alarming amount of vulnerability in the curve of Porthos' spine today. It hadn't been there before last night. "Why?"

Porthos stared at him, dark eyes roving his face, his wrist, and dawdled on a fading mark on his neck that Athos had played off as a sparring bruise.

It  _was,_ it just so happened it wasn't a spar on the courts, per se.

Where Athos had expected to see jealousy cross that strong-planed face, instead it was regret. "You've been with 'im longer," Porthos said, and when Athos blinked, added, "He loves you."

"And I love him," Athos replied almost warily, but it felt painful and proud to say, to say something he had only ever admitted to the man himself.

Porthos nodded, as if he understood. "Exactly, you've been… together. I mean, it's his decision, obviously, but, y'know, you were there first."

Athos pulled his horse to a stop in shock, in a storm, and tried to make sense of what he was hearing. Porthos went on a few steps before realising Athos hadn't followed, and when he turned, it was with genuine confusion on his face.

Athos stared at a man who'd had everything, and never even known.

"You still don't understand," Athos murmured, rage tightening every muscle when Porthos frowned, when Porthos thought himself the unlucky one, when he'd had Aramis' love all these years. Athos shook his head with a laugh that could have cut flesh from bone. "You're the red line, you're the first."

There was a brief beat where Porthos didn't react, and then it was as if a thousand memories replayed in his head, memories of how often he had seen Aramis' wrist, seen it,  _touched_ it, touched a line that had always belonged to him, and Porthos paled.

Athos heard the harsh exhale, saw the widening eyes, saw the  _realisation,_ and he was bitter in the face of Aramis' first line. "Yes, so, now you know."

Athos clicked to his horse, needing to move on, needing to move away from what would surely be smug arrogance on Porthos' face.

And yet, when he finally heard the hooves clicking into place besides his, Porthos said something strange.

"He told you though, 'bout me."

Athos' brow creased but he refused to look over. "And?"

Porthos seemed at once dazed and determined, calm and confused. "All these years we'd been friends, he never once—"

"Do not dare to say he never made his intentions clear," Athos interrupted harshly, but it wasn't the line on his wrist that throbbed at the word  _intentions,_ but the scars striped sideways.

Intent, intent to save, to protect, to  _love._

All failed.

Porthos drew in a breath to defend himself, but he let it out resignedly. "No, I know, but 'e loves everyone 'e meets; back then, didn't even know I was into…"

Porthos trailed off, and with Athos' social façade cringing, he tried to finish the sentence for him. "That type of person?"

"Men," Porthos said instead, and Athos flinched even though they were on the road with no one in sight. Porthos didn't notice, or perhaps he just didn't care, he seemed so very sure of himself in so many ways, except for Aramis, now. "I thought I knew everythin' about 'im."

Athos felt a bizarre pang of sympathy, but he was fairly certain it was for Aramis' sake, for having to keep something integral to his very being a secret.

It was hard enough keeping their relationship quiet this past week, but at least they had shared the burden together, Aramis had dealt with his first line all on his own.

"You didn't love him," Athos murmured, and tried not say something petty and vindictive when Porthos shot him a wounded look, instead he tried to be the person he was around Aramis, even if the words felt like gargling glass when he had to say them to Porthos. "You didn't love him  _then._ It wasn't your fault that you didn't know."

He probably deserved the shocked expression that earned him, but it still pricked his pride, so he amended, "It wasn't  _entirely_ your fault."

Porthos gave a tired sort of laugh. "Feels like it was."

"Yes," Athos murmured, his own memories of fiercely denying his feelings for Aramis still fresh in his head, memories of fiercely denying feelings for someone else all that time ago. Those ones had finally faded, and now they were returning, with vengeance instead of velvet. "It always does."

Porthos looked closely at him, but when Athos wouldn't dignify him with anything other than the side of his head, he sighed. "That's what I mean though, he told you, about me, about 'imself, told you things he's never told me, an I… I left."

"Like Marsac, yes."

"You know about—" Porthos cut himself off with a snort, a resigned shake of the head. "Of course you do, you know everythin' apparently."

Athos had heard Aramis accuse him of that before, and he wasn't sure what to do about the warm feeling it elicited when the words came from Porthos.

It faded all too quickly into guilt when he thought of Aramis.

"Not everything," he replied softly, and for a single moment, he met Porthos' eye with something like empathy between them, a sense of kinship, something beyond the fleurs-de-lis on their pauldrons.

Athos looked away first, not liking the fact that he didn't hold quite as much hatred as he had a moment ago, not liking that he had reasoned it away himself.

It had been easy to assign the blame at Porthos' door when he wasn't a person with feelings and regretful eyes, but, annoyingly, Athos saw something of himself in Porthos' plight.

At least Athos had been able to taste of Aramis' love.

It wasn't the done thing to stare at someone's wrist, but then Athos had heard the tales for nearly all of Porthos' marks, so he felt it within his rights to ask, "Have you ever had a red line?"

Porthos turned his arm as if reminding himself of the marks, neither sparse enough like Athos' to know it easily, nor numerous enough like Aramis' to have it obsessed over.

"Nah, been my lot in life to be slow on the uptake, apparently."

It seemed a charmed life, in a way, so Athos' shake of his head was short. "It is painful."

There was a gap where Aramis would have asked a question, and Athos remembered that Porthos didn't ask, he only shared, and as Athos was famous for neither, he decided to take a leaf out of Aramis' generous book.

"My first was red at the beginning, and it reddened at the end, one way or another. I loved her even after I lost her." Athos rubbed at his face and sighed, "Like a fool."

"Nah, it ain't foolish to love people."

Athos' laugh was hollow at hearing a version of his own words to Aramis. "Says the man with black marks."

"I dunno how long they'll be black for though, the marks don't say how much love, how much time, how much it  _hurts_ ," Porthos replied, echoing Athos' own grievances about those damned marks and, blind to Athos' stunned expression, Porthos added sadly, "It doesn't tell me where 'e is." There was that vulnerability on his face again, as if he truly believed that Aramis loved Athos more.

It was impossible, Athos was sure of it, even as he didn't want to be. Aramis loved Porthos beyond all else, had loved him for nearly all his life. Athos had been humbled by that fact, and he was humbled now.

Aramis' love knew no bounds, and Athos still wasn't sure he deserved it.

"This is her doin', ain't it?" Porthos asked tentatively. "Your red line."

"Yes," Athos answered, his voice oddly tight. "She is punishing me."

Porthos looked as if he wanted to be angry, but something about Athos' posture seemed to settle him, seemed to concern him, and instead he asked quietly, "Why?"

Athos considered not answering, but there was a plaintive pitch to Porthos' voice and it reminded him very much of Aramis, so he answered. "I condemned her to death, but I did not go through with it."

The silence was palpable, but Athos kept his gaze firmly on the horizon, as if he could will Aramis into it, as if he could will Porthos to speak.

"Shouldn't she be happy about that?"

Athos' scoff was full of self-derision. "I stripped her life away from her, instead I condemned her not to death, but to a life of secrecy, to no life at all. I left, made my life anew, and she has never been allowed to do so."

"She could've gone away," Porthos offered. "Made a new life somewhere else, world's a big place."

Athos frowned a little, hearing answers he had never heard before, answers he had not given himself – or allowed anyone to say. "Not big enough, it seems."

"You think she saw you with Aramis?"

The thought made Athos want to claw for air, that same bone-deep fear of being discovered rising to the forefront once more. They were heading to the gallows, but these ones were different.

That tree was his.

Athos couldn't answer, it was obvious enough, and Porthos' fingers curled tighter around his reins, his horse swaying closer to Athos'.

"Will she hurt 'im?"

Athos felt strangely steadied by the man at his side, and his next breath was shorter but surer. "No, it's me she wants to hurt."

For some reason, Athos felt the need to look over then, and the sympathy on Porthos' face was startling. "She already 'as, Athos."

 

* * *

 

"Eat."

Athos stirred from his thoughts, blinking at yet another apple thrust in front of him. It was instinct to shake his head, to demure from the coddling, but rather than Aramis' pleading eyes, it was Porthos' stern ones he met instead.

Taking the apple – snatching it, might have been a more appropriate description – only turned those stern eyes into satisfied ones, as if it was all borne from some pit of pity.

Athos knew, though, he knew because Aramis had told him. Porthos was a protector.

Something that refused to be protected fuelled Athos into reaching for his saddlebags, unhooking a flask of wine only to hand it to Porthos. It was denied, right up until Athos' unimpressed look could reach intolerable levels, and then Porthos took it with something like a begrudging smile.

It shocked Athos enough into ignoring it, although his own lip twitched when Porthos realised it was wine and not water in his flasks.

"An' Aramis says  _I'm_ a bad influence on the recruits," Porthos muttered good-naturedly, and Athos couldn't help a small cough of a laugh.

"I'm known as the good influence, actually," Athos murmured dryly. "Shocking, I know."

"Hey, if you can get Aramis in on time then you must be doin' somethin' right," Porthos acknowledged, surprising Athos with his candour.

"Cake," Athos said suddenly, and then panicked once he had said it, not knowing why he had, but knowing he had to continue when Porthos looked at him in interest. "I bring him cake, in the mornings."

Porthos was silent for a few fevered heartbeats, and then he burst into laughter, low, rumbling peals that seemed to shake the trees and the earth itself. They certainly shook Athos.

"A different sort of sweet to get him up, eh?"

Athos was appalled to feel a flush on his cheeks once he had realised how lewd that statement was and the flush wasn't helped by the frankly filthy wink Porthos sent his way.

Athos stammered, and he wasn't sure he had ever stammered before, and the more he tried to speak, the worse he became, until Porthos was looking at him with a curious sort of smile.

"You really ain't his usual type," Porthos commented, but of all things it felt almost friendly, as if it were a compliment, like those compliments Aramis would tell him over a spar in the morning.

At least a spar meant that he could ignore it. Here, on the road, he was helpless.

"Your mark," Athos said finally, a margin of control over his voice and the heat on his skin. "How did it come to pass?"

Porthos raised a brow as if surprised Athos was asking – not as surprised as Athos himself was – but Porthos looked at his wrist, again as if it were all unfamiliar, but his smile was soft.

"S'the longest we've been apart, this trip to Lyon," Porthos began, holding his reins in one hand so that he could thumb at the mark. "It felt wrong bein' away from 'im, but I thought it was just 'cause we were in each other's pockets all the time."

Athos, against all reason, felt his own smile at his lips. "Aramis said much the same."

Porthos grinned absent-mindedly. "I hated bein' without 'im, like a part of me was missin'. I remember gettin' stitched up by some hard-handed idiot." Athos wanted to laugh, but all he could do was stare at Porthos, stare and marvel at a story that felt so familiar. "I was thinkin' that I never wanted to go another day without seein' 'im, without…  _bein'_ with 'im, an' it clicked."

"Clicked?"

Porthos snorted, "Maybe clicked's the wrong word. I just knew, like it 'ad been there all along. Almost didn't see the mark, I got a lot of black."

Athos' lip twisted at that, he knew about those marks, Aramis had told him about them, about all of them, but Porthos' thumb went back to the last line as if it were a royal decree that had told him everything.

"It was weird, first I thought I was wrong, I didn't love 'im, not like that, 'cause I didn't 'ave any red marks," Porthos explained, and the wistful hope in it was painful. "His was already black, he already loved me."

"He always did," Athos added, the words torn from his throat, but Porthos simply nodded wonderingly.

"I thought of Aramis, an' it burned."

Athos knew the feeling.

He found it harder to speak now, found it harder to breathe when confronted with the depth of love that he heard in Porthos' voice, that he had heard in Aramis', seen in his eyes and on his wrist.

Porthos had  _used_ his wrist to know what his love meant, his intentions were so very clear, so very simple.

Until Athos.

"What about you?"

Athos inhaled sharply, almost confused by the question until he saw Porthos' attention on his low sleeves, and Athos had to stop himself from touching his wrist, shielding it from Porthos' gaze, protecting it.

He had no such story, his was one of denial, over so many years. Years of drinking, years of convincing himself that he didn't deserve any happiness, no love, no intentions, and nothing simple.

Until Aramis.

"He broke into my room."

Porthos' laugh was at once affectionate and anguished. "I taught 'im how to do that."

Athos heard that same dichotomous feeling in Porthos' voice as he felt in his own chest, an odd sort of wet warmth, as if two things were at war. In a way, Porthos had given Aramis the tools to make their marks.

And yet, Athos knew, he had been in love with Aramis far before he had broken into his room.

Porthos cleared his throat. "You've had weeks together—"

"No, only a week," Athos interrupted, and felt a strange heat in his cheeks at the admission when Porthos stared in surprise, as if it proved how hopeless he was with love that it had taken him so long to realise what he wanted out of life.

"How'd it take so long?"

Athos raised a brow. "Can you really ask that question?"

Porthos gave him a chiding look, and Athos wondered whether that same little thrill at the base of his spine was what Aramis had meant when he said he liked those looks from him.

But surely not, because Aramis  _liked_ it, and Athos…

Athos didn't know what to make of the fact that he wanted to smirk.

It felt like testing his luck, testing his sting against a bigger beast, testing his wits against a clever one.

"I talked myself out of it," Athos said finally, needing to look away from the man who caused him such confusion.

Porthos tilted his head to the side, as if intrigued by the philosophy behind it – and Athos remembered that Aramis was fascinated by the marks too. "Didn't know it worked like that."

"I'm very good at convincing myself," Athos announced with a hefty dose of self-recrimination.

"Bendin' wrists and reality alike, you," Porthos chuckled, and then licked his lips, his eyes meeting Athos' again, something searching in it. "Until Aramis."

"I don't think rules apply to Aramis," Athos answered a little ruefully, so very aware of how much he had changed this past month – and for the better, so much for the better.

"Hate to say it, Athos, but they ain't applyin' to you either," Porthos murmured, his smile lopsided when Athos gave him a surprised look. "Never known someone to talk 'emself out of love. Is it easy?"

It was an odd question. Athos had never thought it a skill, not even a curse, it was simply fact. As a youth he had avoided others his age, loath to mingle even then, until he had fallen for a woman with a wrist closely bound.

He had learned to talk himself out of love from her, learned to hate it, learned to carve it from his skin and from his mind, until Aramis had opened his heart, his soul, his wrist from its cotton confines.

"I don't know," Athos answered haltingly. "Aramis is only my second line."

Porthos' humour faded away, his attention darting to Athos' bound wrist before coming up again, and he seemed almost daunted when he finally spoke, as if Athos' few marks were something…

Good.

Porthos had to clear his throat twice before he could speak, and still it was somewhat hoarse. "I always told Aramis that the marks didn't matter, an' they don't, people fall in an' outta love all the time, but you?"

Athos felt an odd catch in his breathing, and heard himself talking to Aramis on the day he had seen all his marks.  _You have loved all your life._

"You've loved so carefully, Athos," Porthos murmured, and Athos thought it a rather generous thing to say. He wasn't careful, he was selfish, selfish with a limitless thing that Aramis and Porthos shared so easily with others. "It's precious."

Athos jerked in surprise, expecting a tirade about not experiencing life, not experiencing  _love._

"All love is precious," Athos muttered, not knowing what to do with the almost reverent way Porthos was looking at him now, as if he were some sort of precious thing himself. It wasn't as if he had engineered it this way, just as Aramis had not engineered his many marks.

 _Intent_ was not a part of this conversation.

"Yeah, but yours is true, yours is—" Porthos' soft tones suddenly stopped, but when Athos braced for the damnation he deserved, Porthos asked so very simply, "Have you silvered?"

Athos almost laughed, even if it was a colourless thing, even if the very idea of a silver line was something that seemed too bright, too wonderful a thing to imagine. They were rare enough to be a myth, but they existed.

Aramis had seen them on the wrists of his own parents, and Athos had seen one on his own captain's arm.

"No, I'm having difficulty enough with a black line on my arm, let alone a silver one," Athos answered, trying to be glib to hide that ragged hope in his heart.

As if he deserved such a thing.

"It'll happen," Porthos said firmly, and when Athos raised a brow, Porthos shrugged. "You love true, Athos."

"You don't even know me," Athos answered a little too sharply, wincing when he echoed Porthos' statement from yesterday. Wincing again when he remembered he had told Aramis that he loved true, too.

"Aramis loves you," Porthos replied, his smile a little sad when Athos was so determined to think himself unworthy. "An' you love 'im, that's enough for me."

Athos stared, and didn't stop. Porthos claimed that it was he and Aramis that changed all the rules, but that was wrong, because Porthos did too, Porthos didn't act like any other person. He barrelled into battle without a plan, yes, but he always barrelled out of it regardless, a few scars worse for wear but a story to tell, a drink to be had, a laugh to be shared.

It was easy now to see the man Aramis had spoken of, the best friend who had gotten him in  _and_ out of trouble, the brawler who took a bruise in defence of someone smaller, the Musketeer who had risen from nothing to be worthy of his position.

Porthos, Athos saw, was worthy of so many things.

"I suppose Aramis  _is_ a good judge of character," Athos finally replied, and the look of delight on Porthos' face forced Athos to look away lest he smile.

For once, their silence was companionable, filled with apples and wine, and their horses travelled better for it, their time better than ever. It afforded them a stop, one so very close to the lands that Athos knew well, but his mare had caught a stone and so he forced himself to steadiness.

She huffed against his shoulder, and Athos fed her the apple that Porthos had thrown him – only to be thrown another when Porthos noticed.

Porthos' laughter still shook the trees, the earth, and Athos, but it was easier to bear.

As was the guilt on his shoulders, the blame on his back, and he realised it had lessened slightly with Porthos beside him, with the words lifting from his chest.

Athos sneaked a glance across the clearing at Porthos murmuring sweet nothings to his stallion, and turned back with a small, barely perceptible smile.

It disappeared when Porthos cried out.

Athos ran over in an instant, a bizarre thundering of concern making him rush to Porthos' side, rush to see Porthos clinging to his left wrist as if it burned.

A left wrist which bore a red line, a red line that had been black only yesterday.

Athos scrambled for his own, tearing at the ties to his sleeve until he could see that one black line, a tangle of silver threads in the middle from his sideways scars.

His heart in his throat, he stared at it, and let loose a huge sigh of relief when it didn't turn red.

Almost immediately he wished he could take it back, because Porthos made a noise that sounded like a sob, one he immediately choked back, choked the pain in his eyes, hid his wrist, hid himself in his horse's flank.

"Porthos," Athos began, his own hand tentatively going to Porthos' shoulder. He almost didn't do it, didn't close the gap, but the  _heartbreak_ he had seen in those damp-soil eyes made him somehow desperate to alleviate it in any way he could.

The moment his fingers touched leather, Porthos almost sagged into the touch, much as Aramis did after a long day, a longer night.

Athos thought he would have been pleased, would have been overjoyed to see Porthos' love unreturned, and yet he felt terrible, an awful welt on his own heart as if he himself had cut Porthos out of the picture.

In a way, he had.

"I'm sorry," Athos blurted, not knowing what to do, what to  _say,_ and so he turned away.

Porthos caught his arm, calloused fingers closing around Athos' left wrist, damp-soil even damper when Athos caught his gaze, and for a moment, everything went still.

Athos blinked, that wet warmth back in his chest again, a war of things he didn't understand, and he looked at the hand that held him in place, at the wrist attached to it, at the lines upon them.

Athos frowned, his mouth opening uncertainly, and then Porthos was gone, his fingers snatched away and his sleeves shoved down his wrists much like Athos' usually were.

"C'mon," Porthos said roughly, swiping at his eyes before leading his horse back to the road. "We gotta get goin', gotta reunite you with Aramis."

Athos stared after him in stupefaction, stared at a man whose heart seemed so huge. Porthos had seen proof that his love was turned away, to another man, and still he helped, still he reassured, still he tossed an apple Athos' way and checked that he ate it.

It sent a twinge through Athos' chest, a spark along his arm, and he hoped it wasn't a heart attack.

Porthos loved true, that much was obvious, truer than anyone Athos had ever known.

Athos mounted up in silence and they raced through the night, dangerously fast, but Athos was too confused by the newly red mark on Porthos' wrist.

By  _both_  red marks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that last line was coming?! (Except for the relationship tags... surprise?) 
> 
> For everyone who kept commenting and kudosing, you have no idea how wonderful you are. You kept me going when life beat me down, and I love all of you. I only like to reply when I have something new to give you, so here I am, replying a year late, but with two new chapters up my sleeve.


	9. Vin de Glace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re here at last, I’m so sorry it’s taken this long. I hope the extra chapter and the added epilogue makes up for it. As always, thank you to [misanthropiclycanthrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope/works), who keeps me going and hypes me for OT3 fics <3

> There is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you.
> 
> \- Charles Dickens,  _'A Tale of Two Cities'_

They raced through the day too quickly to talk, stopping only to change horses, eating in the saddle when they could and forgoing food entirely when they had to. Time was meaningless when they knew Aramis waited at the other end.

He was all that mattered, to both of them.

Night drew in swiftly, blanketing the skies faster than Athos would have liked. Travelling by horseback at night was a recipe for disaster, but as they wheeled into the quiet village Athos knew so painfully well, he risked his mount's wellbeing for a little longer.

Athos urged his horse faster, taking the rise in short breaths with Porthos close on his heels. Their hoofbeats were muffled by the grass, but Athos dismounted in a spray of stones by the stables, already racing towards the back door.

"Athos," Porthos hissed, one large hand clamping around Athos' arm. There was a moment where Porthos looked at the large building ahead of them and then back at Athos again, something strange and uncertain his eyes, as if he hadn't realised Athos owned lands such as these.

Then again, how would he? Just because Athos knew everything about Porthos, didn't mean the reverse was true.

Athos wondered why that thought hurt him a little.

"Be careful," Porthos warned, the look in his eyes turning to worry, but when Athos frowned in surprise, Porthos let him go abruptly and added, "For Aramis."

Porthos' grip seemed to leave a phantom warmth on his skin, and Athos paused, hesitant. "Of course."

"We should go quietly—" Porthos cut himself off to look at something over Athos' shoulder. It was a light, a flicker of a candle in a window Athos knew well.

It would only be that room.

For the first time in Athos' life, he charged into danger without a plan, but then he did it for Aramis, and he had Porthos at his side.

The master bedroom at la Fère was once a plush, comfortable room, but now, decked in dust sheets and glowing with spilled candlewax, it looked more like an abandoned church with one sole worshipper, and entering it, Athos felt prayers drop from his lips.

Aramis was on his knees at the foot of the bed, wrists and ankles tied behind him, a gag about his mouth, and behind him, with a blade to his neck, was Athos' wife.

"Anne." The name escaped him on a breath, but Athos' eyes were locked with Aramis', eyes he had stared into not three days past, closed eyes he had pressed kisses to. These eyes were wet, and Aramis strained against his captor at the sight of him.

Athos found it suddenly difficult to breathe, and again when Aramis' gaze left him, and widened. Porthos had caught up with him, sword in hand, and whispered something Athos couldn't hear under Aramis' desperate cry.

If Aramis had strained before, now he wrestled, and the blade at his throat kissed the tanned skin far too closely. Porthos rocked forwards, but he inhaled sharply at the last, his left hand clenching in on itself for some reason.

"Anne," Athos said again, finally dragging his attention upwards to a woman he thought had died a long time ago.

Athos almost didn't recognise her, but the sneer that twisted her lips was painfully familiar. "My name is Milady, you killed that woman,  _comte._ "

She spat the last word, and Athos stepped back as if it had been a physical blow. In a way, it was, it was his title that had brought everything crashing about his ears, just as her voice had broken him in so many ways.

And threatened to do so again.

"I'll do anything," Athos begged, another first in his life. "I'll do anything, just,  _please,_ let him live."

The blade pressed harder into Aramis' neck, the skin threatening to split, and Athos with it.

"You never said the same for me," Milady replied, fury in every word, "and I was your  _wife."_

Athos felt the weight of his actions laid bare in front of him, felt every moment he had tried to turn away, to ignore his actions, and here they had come back to haunt him. Athos stared at the woman he had made promises to, stared at the woman who had made promises to him, and all lay broken.

A tear tracked through the dust and dirt of his cheek, and Athos shook his head numbly.

"I'm sorry."

Surprise changed her face, loosened the tight lines of her mouth for a brief moment, and then they hardened again. "Sorry does not give me my life back."

"But it does," Porthos offered softly, muscles tense with fear but his face open and earnest. "You can go an' make a new life."

Athos was too worried to look away, but his eyes closed in something like desperation, a desperation that said that Porthos was too good a man, too  _worthy_ a man to be stuck here, to be caught in the reckless storm he seemed to bring everywhere he went.

Milady's glare was venomous, even in the face of Porthos' sympathy.

"Any life I make is tainted by my past, by him, by  _this,_ " she hissed, but gestured around the room, at them all, with her left wrist still so carefully bound as it was the day Athos had met her.

"We've all got marks," Porthos replied quietly, something tight and trembling in his voice. "Some we regret, but some… some make life worth livin'."

Athos couldn't help but turn then, had to, as if his guilt forced him to look, his heart ready to break when he expected to see Porthos staring at Aramis.

Instead, Porthos stared at him, and Athos' careful,  _careful_ heart seemed to tremble.

Aramis' wide, wide eyes looked between them, and Athos heaved a wet, confused breath. "Porthos?"

Porthos fumbled for words, and when they came, they were thick and fast. "Athos, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No," Athos hastened, unsure what to do with the weight of wine and apples in his stomach, the weight of a worthy man's gaze on his wet cheeks, with the weight of a love for another worthy man kneeling only feet away.

So much weight, so many worries, and not enough words.

Athos sneaked a glance at Aramis, and saw something that shocked him. Aramis was crying, silver streams from his eyes, and yet he smiled, his lips curving over the fabric, and he offered Athos one shaky nod.

Athos didn't know why.

"Porthos," Athos began, the name unfamiliar on his tongue but  _right_ in his head, familiar in his ears and carved into the wooden beams that decked the garrison's yard.

Aramis' name was carved there too, and both names were carved elsewhere, and Athos didn't know why.

Didn't know why his heart hurt, why his arm hurt, why  _life_ hurt.

Athos looked at Aramis, he looked at Porthos, and life hurt just a little less.

"Porthos," Athos whispered helplessly, and Aramis' whimper only made it worse.

Porthos' chest heaved, every breath seeming hard-fought for, but then he looked past Athos, and his face changed.

"No."

Athos looked over his shoulder, and then his shoulder was on the floor, the other briefly under Porthos' palm as he was pushed from his feet, his left wrist slamming against the parquet wood, the grain so very familiar against his skin.

A low grunt of pain was not.

Aramis  _keened,_ and Athos pushed himself up to see Aramis straining at his bonds, his expression contorted and tortured,

Athos looked up, and up, and almost couldn't bear to keep looking.

Porthos' hands were framed about his stomach, his palms pushing painfully against the muscle, and from between his fingers, sprang something silver.

Milady stared for a moment in shock, and then something twisted her features, as if Athos had personally pushed Porthos in the way, as if he'd had something to do with it.

As if Athos had  _made him_  do it.

All the guilt of his past compared nothing to these last few days.

"You're  _poison_ ," Milady hissed. "All you do is taint everything around you, dragging them down to you level—"

"Enough!" Athos thundered, every breath wet and tearing. "I am tired of hiding away, tired of punishing myself for things we both did wrong." Athos loosed a sigh that shivered, like dew-damp wings in the beginning of spring, and his voice was ever so quiet as he met Aramis' eyes and said, "I am no longer tired of life."

Milady simply stared at him, rage and something that might have been regret twisting her features, but when she opened her mouth to speak, Athos looked at Porthos and could bear no more.

"Get out," Athos murmured, fear tightening his throat, something terrifying tightening his chest, and above all, a tingling tightness up and down his wrist. "Get  _out!"_

Athos shook, shook with the need to go to Porthos, to Aramis, to check on them both, to apologise, but he dared not move.

She left, and the room seemed to take a breath without her in it. Athos darted to Porthos' side, still standing, only to be met with one eye squeezed shut and a pained grin. "M'fine, check on Aramis."

Athos skidded across the floor, a wild thumping in his chest. Aramis strained to reach him when Athos knelt at his front, blade far too close to Aramis' cheek just to cut the gag, the edge of his beard a few hairs short by the end, and then Aramis toppled into him, his jaw pushing into Athos' palm, his lips against Athos' mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Aramis," Athos whispered, feeling as if he would be sick with fear and relief, apologising for so many things, things he still didn't understand, old things and new, and the  _new…_

"It's okay,  _mon cher,_ it's okay," Aramis replied, tears melting between Athos' fingers, his smile in his palm. "I love you."

Athos nearly crumbled, not feeling as if he deserved it, didn't deserve any of it. Because if he had Aramis' love, that meant that someone else did not.

There was a grunt, and Athos had barely managed to slip the blade ever so carefully against Aramis' red-raw wrists, the left still bound in cotton strips, when there was a metallic clatter, and an almighty thump.

Athos turned so fast that his neck hurt, and Aramis' hand suddenly clenched upon his own as they saw Porthos on his knees, the bloodied blade by his side.

"He always takes them out," Aramis whispered, sounding so very tired. "Go."

Aramis seemed so calm when Athos felt so stressed, and he didn't understand why Aramis wasn't clawing at the walls like he was, but then perhaps Aramis was used to this, to stitching up his loved ones, used to loving people, used to losing them.

Athos was new to everything, new to the stitches, to the love, to the loss.

_Loss?_

Porthos fell slowly to his back, like some great tree toppling in a forest.

"Aramis, I don't know what to do, what do I do?" Athos called over his shoulder, putting his left hand over the wound, holding it together when he couldn't even hold himself together.

"You're doin' fine, Athos," Porthos murmured, his bloodied hand coming over Athos', Porthos' pulse a weakening thing against Athos' wrist.

Athos thought it typical that Porthos was the one reassuring  _him_ in this situation, and the very idea of this man, this fierce, foolish man trying to protect him, made Athos exhale in pained confusion.

"I don't understand," he admitted, a wet edge to his demand. "Why did you do it?"

Porthos' laugh was soft and scarily breathy as he looked up at them both when Aramis came to settle at his side. "You're in love, I wasn't gonna get in the way." Porthos smiled through a cough. "Well, okay, I  _did_ get in the way."

Aramis' hands gently replaced Athos' own, a laugh of his through his tears, and Athos could only stare at the two of them, feeling as if he was missing out on some great joke.

How could he laugh when he felt in so much pain?

"It was supposed to be me she hurt, not you," he said quietly as Aramis tore cloth from his shirt and pressed at Porthos' stomach, the pair of them wincing but neither stopping. It was an old dance, for these two.

Porthos offered him a half smile, sweat on his brow at the wound. "Hurtin' you hurts us all, Athos."

"I don't  _want_ you to hurt," Athos insisted, and his next breath came out shallower when he realised what he was saying – if only he knew  _why_ he was saying it. "I don't want either of you to hurt."

Porthos laughed again, his head tilting back as he closed his eyes. "Rules don't apply to you, Athos, told you that already."

Athos tried to think clearly, tried to understand, but his wrist kept hurting and Porthos' words echoed in his head.

Rules didn't apply to him, because he could talk himself out of anything, whether it was trouble, parade duty, or love.

_Love._

A love of wine, and apples, and a man with curls of tumbled cinnamon and a heart too big for any one person.

Just like Porthos, a man with a laugh that shook the earth and a smile that shone like the sun.

Porthos went limp beneath his hands, and Athos flinched, panicking as Aramis' bloodied fingers found Porthos' pulse.

"It's fine, Athos, he's going to be okay," Aramis said soothingly, a strange smile at his lips. "He's been through worse than this."

Athos sagged in relief, his hands burying in Porthos' jacket as Athos rested his head there, against the quiet but strong thump beneath the leather.

"I knew you would come."

Athos huffed a shaky laugh into Porthos' jacket. "I didn't come alone."

"I'm surprised," Aramis replied quietly, and when Athos didn't rouse from his position, the dust in the air seemed to thicken, and Aramis had to clear his throat before he continued. "What's wrong, Athos?"

Athos shivered slightly in the warm room, and it showed in his voice. "I don't know."

Aramis inhaled somewhat sharply, and Athos wondered whether he had ever admitted to not knowing something before. Today was a day of firsts, a day of new things, new intentions, new friendships, new loves.

_Oh._

Realisation did not come quickly, it didn't punch him in the gut or swallow him whole, as it had with Aramis. No, this was a slow thing, this was the slow trickle of wine and the occasional throw of an apple, this was a stubborn, persistent grin, like the arc of the sun, and all the warmth with it.

Swiftly on its heels was betrayal, a harsh, shrill note that froze all the blood in his veins, because  _how could he?_

"Athos?" There was a high note to Aramis' question, something rough and peaky, and Athos had long known he was unable to deny Aramis anything.

Even love.

Slowly, Athos pushed himself up, and there, in the flickering candlelight, emblazoned upon a scratching of scars, were two black lines.

Misery sank into his bones even as a part of him wanted to rejoice, wanted to count them aloud. Two,  _two,_ two whole lines when he thought he was destined to have none, but none was what he deserved.

After all that Aramis had given him, all Aramis had  _shown_ him, Athos had betrayed him anyway. Aramis, the man who gave up his childhood love for him, and instead, somewhere on that dusty, dire road, Athos had fallen for that very same man.

He had seen two red lines on Porthos' wrist, one of them was his.

It was all Athos could do to thrust his bare, betraying wrist towards Aramis, and he expected to hear a pained noise, disgust, sorrow, not a soft exhalation and a gentle thumb across his pulse.

Athos looked over to see that it was Aramis' left hand holding his, his own wrist still bound in bandages, but Aramis' smile was a devoted, delighted thing. "It's okay, Athos."

"How is it?" Athos fought not to cry out. "I've failed you again."

"You have never failed me,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis whispered, his warm brown eyes alight and beautiful. "I knew you would come."

"But I—"

Aramis silenced him with a kiss, a soft, tentative thing because this was still so new for them, so new for Athos, as everything was, from the deep well of adoration he felt for the man in front of him, to the fresh, sparkling river of affection he felt for the man at his knees.

Aramis' left hand came up against Athos' cheek, his fingers shaking slightly as he spoke softly. "He is my first line, Athos, but you are my last."

Athos' frown was small, confused, but at Aramis' hopeful, wobbly smile, Athos' eyes widened.

Surely  _nobody_ was that lucky.

Athos knew that he knew nothing about love, he didn't know much about life, or rules, or reality, but when Aramis' smile threatened to waver, Athos knew he would do anything to keep it there.

Athos pushed his forehead against Aramis', and tried to calm his heart. "Stay here, I'm sure there's something to eat somewhere."

Aramis looked up in bewilderment, his fingers closing worriedly around Athos', so Athos brought them to his lips and tried to smile. "I'll try to find something other than wine."

"I could do with a drink," Aramis whispered, grateful to pass the protection into Athos' hands. Keeping them alive was Aramis' job, keeping them safe was his.

"Then a drink you will have," Athos promised.

Athos swept through the kitchen, finding nothing but stale bread and cheese, but a rather hefty amount of wine still in the cellar. Years of dust welcomed him as he picked randomly from the shelves.

Well, almost randomly.

There was water in the well, and he drew as much as he could carry, teeth clenched at the piercing cold when he drank some, the rest splashing his face.

Aside from the lack of food, it was no different to their usual fare, water and wine, but for a few fancy cakes.

Athos paused at the base of the cellar stairs, lowering his burden for a moment and thinking of wine and cakes, of a sun-drenched roof and home-cooked meals, of apples, of brute-force spars and chases through the night. He thought of Aramis, thought of Porthos, thought of what might be.

Athos gently rolled his sleeves back, and slid his thumb reverently over two solid, black lines.

Surely he wasn't that lucky.

 

* * *

 

Porthos felt as if he were on fire, his stomach ached something fierce, and his head felt as if a thousand horses had pounded through it. There was a warmth against his side, a weight that felt almost familiar, and he opened his eyes excepting to see Aramis curled against him.

It was Athos.

The worry that had flooded his head turned to something tender, and he realised that they had moved him to the bed, and at some point Athos had fallen asleep next to him, slumber taking the lines from his face.

He looked softer now, that permanently unimpressed look gone from his brow, his mouth eased from the sneer that sat so prettily on his face.

Not that Porthos would ever tell him that, of course.

Porthos flinched suddenly, gaze lifting as he looked for Aramis, only to find him sat on the opposite side of the room, evidently having forced himself to stay awake to watch over them. Guilt washed over Porthos like a wave, one that sucked at his feet and told him he was the worst, most ignorant fool alive.

All this time he had never realised Aramis' feelings, and now it wasn't so simple.

Love never was.

Strangely enough, Aramis offered him a smile, but it was hopeful, his eyes tired and overbright, and Porthos ached to hold him, even after all he had put his oldest friend through.

"I didn't check."

Porthos frowned in confusion, but then he saw Aramis massaging his wrist, a bandage wrapped tightly around his marks. Porthos felt the shirt cuffs tied around his own wrists, and everything became crystal clear.

Porthos didn't need marks to know how he felt, he didn't need marks to know why Athos was curled up against his side – although his heart hurt at the very possibility – but he knew that Aramis treasured his marks above all else.

"C'mere." Porthos patted the bed, the scant space next to Athos' hip, and Aramis' brows raised in pained hope before tilting in concern.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, c'mere, butterfly." Porthos knew the name would make Aramis flush, but still his oldest friend took only two steps closer, so Porthos offered a soft smile. "It'll be okay."

Aramis was openly nervous now, his gaze darting between Athos' softly sleeping form and Porthos stroking Athos' shoulder with his left hand. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Porthos gave a crooked smile, hearing his own words on Aramis' lips, his own desperate explanation when Athos had looked at him earlier, looked at a man who, despite it all, might very well love him.

"She told me you were dead," Aramis whispered, his thumb pressing painfully through his bandages. "She told me she would kill Athos too if I didn't try to stop—"

Aramis' eyes watered, and at his first sniff, Porthos reached out across the distance between them and pulled him close; he was there to hold him, as he had so many times in the past.

"You can't change the marks, sweet."

"But I did," Aramis insisted tearfully, and Porthos remembered that sharp stab of pain on the way here, that solitary red line on his arm when it had become two,  _two._ "Athos did it, so I did too, I did it to keep you both safe, and Porthos…" Aramis broke off to inhale sharply, his next words barely a whisper. "It hurt so much."

"Hush, I know." Porthos murmured, one hand still on Athos' shoulder, the other wrapped around Aramis' neck. It felt as if he could breathe for the first time, but he had no idea why.

Aramis shook like a startled fawn, tears still soaking into Porthos' shirt, but slowly he began to calm, relaxing entirely when Athos' thigh pushed sleepily against his.

Uncertain but beautiful, brown eyes met Porthos', and in them was a question.

"Go on," Porthos urged, bringing his left wrist up for Aramis to see, his right settling on Athos' hip.

Slender fingers grasped his hand, and then slowly began to untie the knots that Porthos would have sworn down were impossible for anyone other than him to untie.

The fabric fell slowly away from his wrist, but Aramis still looked at him, and Porthos couldn't look away.

Aramis leaned over Athos, one palm curving gently over Athos' shoulder, and the other covering Porthos' wrist as their foreheads came together. Porthos' heart skipped a beat, his earlier confidence guttering in the face of the overwhelming emotion in his heart.

A heart that felt split in two.

There was a scant inch between them, and Aramis' lips felt like butterfly wings as they spoke so quietly Porthos could barely hear.

"I love you both."

Porthos released a breath, his smile a wrecked, relieved thing, his own hand covering Aramis' on Athos' shoulder, and he replied without looking down. "I know."

Their kiss was sweet but bold, not quite new but not quite familiar, not when they knew so much about each other, not when they had so much more to learn.

Their foreheads met again, their smiles happy, tired things, and Porthos finally looked down at a touch on his wrist, and then he inhaled sharply.

Athos was awake, his eyes glued to where their three hands met, and there, spanning three wrists, were six oddly coloured lines, as if they glinted in the candlelight. On one tan wrist they glimmered at the beginning and end of a long, well-lived life, on another they gleamed as the final two, and on the last they glittered as the only two lines marking pale, scarred skin.

Aramis murmured a breathless prayer, and Porthos could only echo it.

He had seen silver lines only a handful of times in his life, but he had never seen a pair on the same wrist, even if they did look  _right._

"Simple, really," Porthos managed weakly, his smile growing crooked when Athos raised a brow.

"You two are both anything but."

Aramis brought their hands together to his lips, a beatific smile seeming to lighten the room as he pressed kisses to two sets of knuckles. "Love rarely is."

 

* * *

 

It was hard to hide a silver line, it was harder still to hide three pairs of them, and yet it wasn't as hard to hide as everything that came with it, the looks, the smiles, the touches.

So they stopped trying.

For the most part, anyway, there were some lines that even Porthos dared not cross when they were in public, and for that Athos was grateful.

Things changed and they didn't. Athos was determined to maintain his courtship, even when Porthos growled at being denied a kiss – much to Aramis' joy.

Porthos was determined to be his charming best, even when Athos floundered at being given a kiss – also much to Aramis' joy.

Aramis spent his days as the butterfly he was, flirting with the pair of them and then watching the heated fallout when Athos tried to demure and Porthos tried to demand.

For all Athos put up a fight to maintain a modicum of dignity, he spent most of his time smiling, and even more of it with kiss-slick lips and bruises on his skin.

And for all Porthos put up a fight to rid themselves of all dignity as soon as possible, the look on his face whenever he received another gift, another tailored treat, another flower at his door, was something akin to dismayed happiness.

Their intentions were very clear, they were just a little bit different, but that was the fun of it.

Aramis often cooked again, Athos brought dessert, and Porthos' contribution could arguably be drinks or the way he roped Aramis into turning Athos into a mess by the end of every evening, stammering his goodbyes with a reluctance Aramis was counting the days for.

Against just him, Athos might have had a chance, but against the pair of them, their steady and stubborn Athos was often lost for words.

They had both had so many marks over their lives, but Athos' were still so new, so unfamiliar, and they both took great delight in simply thumbing his slim wrist and listening to his breathing stutter.

Athos got them back simply by being so unaware of his effect on them. At muster, he would send sly smiles across the yard, murmur seemingly innocuous things that he had whispered only hours earlier, and simply thrash anyone that stepped against his blade.

They thought him stunning, and they adored him.

Athos had come into his own upon their return, as if those silvered lines had completed him as the myths said they did. Aramis and Porthos stopped pretending they were sparring when Athos took up his stance, and Athos stopped pretending he wasn't smiling when he noticed.

"The wasp wins another," Porthos called as Athos nodded to his defeated opponent, and Aramis laughed at the unimpressed look Athos sent them.

"You could at least critique me."

"There is nothing to critique,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis replied, and earned that chiding look he loved so much, this one coupled with a smirk.

"I don't tell a wasp how to sting," Porthos added, and winked when Athos glared good-naturedly.

"What, pray tell, are you in this little insect world of yours?"

Porthos tilted his head to the side in genuine consideration. "Not sure. Honeybee? Spreading the pollen."

"Sticky and sweet?" Aramis offered in faux innocence, but Athos had sobered slightly.

"They offer their lives for the hive, their sting is suicidal."

Aramis was reminded of that fateful day when their marks had turned, had silvered, and Porthos had nearly sacrificed himself for the pair of them, for love.

Porthos shrugged, ever the fearless warrior. "I'd stand in the way of the world for you two."

Athos hooked a finger around Porthos' chin, his voice dangerously low and his eyes infinitely fond. "Do not, for I would kill the world for the pair of you."

There had been flashes of this side of Athos before, but now, with their intentions clear in every breath and each silvered line, Athos' sharp edges glistened gloriously against Porthos' teeth.

Aramis watched them snarl at each other, a happy sigh in his heart as he scratched three initials into one of the yard's wooden beams. A mark glowed on his neck, another on Porthos' chest, and a third on Athos' wrists, a dark pink smudge against the silver.

They would make more, they would make them on the roof, bathed in sunshine, they would make them on the road, soaked in rain, they would make them for the rest of their lives, together, inseparable.

Love, Aramis knew, was anything but simple, but it was so very sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t going to be terribly cliché with the silvered lines, but then sometimes we all want a little bit of perfect love in our lives, don’t we? I want to thank all of you who have been along for the ride, and I want to give a huge thank you to those of you who commented - you have no idea how wonderful you are. Of all the fandoms I've dipped into, Musketeers is still one of my faves, you're all amazing, and I adore these boys. SO, in honour of all of you, I have some [silly, adorable crackfic Porthathos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11969421/chapters/27068766) posted too. 
> 
> Thank you again, you rock <3


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